Clicking on the login button over

and over again,

I cant cultivate this madness, I cant cultivate these fruits or any other.

Relentless and motivated, I’ll take this turn a bit wider than the rest,

I stole that bird and all that came with it!

The pages are loading and the roots and your my virulence is spreading//

A buzzing, a ticking and a dial tone ( all walk into a bar)

echo throughout the cave, and so do you now,

warmer now, burning especially bright,

You can tread lightly now, especially now.

Stepping over primordial spiders, and fighting you way through other vicarious intersections,

….but there’s not much use for titles anymore, or musing or even museums for that matter.

My raindancer,

my still, begging flame,

my tour guide for god’s sake!

This crime is beyond the museum glass,

My crime is there, beyond the barely- there glass.

Beyond barely- there you and beyond barely-there me,

Splayed out for the rest of the barely-there treacherous world,

out of reach, tucked in between canyons, in between theater seats.

Barely out of reach,

just barely.

You couldn’t conjure up a happier ending than this one, though.

You couldn’t CAPITALIZE on a poem like that one, though,

You cant fight through these columns and these margins, Augustus Caesar.

No one could,

especially not you

especially not me,

especially not the bird,,,,

Take a look around, we’ve arrived in Rome, baby!

You cant pack your bags if you don’t know what’s in them,

If you’ve never even seen inside of them,

or even looked under the sheet,

or asked me if I brought anything,

or if it’s even breathing.

Whatever you brought with you is especially loud, and especially bright.

you’ve seen my medals,

and you’ve got my attention,

especially now,

Sandwiched between many trees,

Built like a fortress on top of  fertile soil, and

                                   Below a crescent moon.

Amidst a crescendo of croissants, lining the sky,

                                                                       lining the display cases, that are flickering.

           All that  sticky glaze, and showmanship is drying out now, under those dying lights.

 backed by a wind that is decaying too, with static hands around it’s neck.

                               It still tastes of honey, though.

somehow, it still tastes of honey.

The dilapidated swimming pool  serves as a soft landing;

                                               A soft opening,

                                                             A plot hole.

A cavernous cadaver, marked with algae and stillness.

The floor on which the elevators  stops and the doors open,

And no one exits,

But I press the buttons to close the doors anyways,

tap tap tap tapping

| >< || >< || >< || >< || >< |

Nothing closes, and I am left  temporarily catching leaves,

and   the seasons along with it .

                                       and a cold along with it,

                                                                             the cold along with it,

all of your unsubscribed emails along with it.

Rocks skipped from the hands of children,

                         Rocks skipped right into the closet.

That collect at the bottom of this pool and so many others, 

and  one day they will be diamonds.

and  one day there will be diamonds.

  There will be blood, and toy cars just like them,

                                                  I just want the doors to close.

                                                    I don’t want to be typecast anymore.

Overlooking this sepia-colored catchall is everything autumn,

                                                                     everything human

                                                                        enduring  artificially.

This sea of shiftlessness,

                    of breaking waves, indolence  and corrosive epitaphs,

                    and festival banners, don’t forget the festival banners.

Crawling with discarded camera reels and whitewashed for sale signs.

                                                                                For sale, forever ago.

                     Having fallen from the sky,

  even these angels are rudimentary,  almost binary in motion.

                     nothing has been updated,

                                                     not the store hours or the out of order signs.

You still get the same channels , too.

                    you’ll need a ladder, too.

             Silver is still the preferred method of payment, but no one remembers exactly how much.

                      We still haven’t run out of titles or catchphrases or places to hide, either.

                                       But you now you have a water tower or a satellite dish, or something else entirely,

Something made of metal, ( Not silver)

            and its not me  or you,  (Not silver)

but its crushing everything, even us.

                                      especially us,

                                                         but not silver.

It at least offers some relief from the sun, though.

It is imbued with your smile, though,

                                                          and some relief from the sun.

Crushing everything below it, everything it fell on top of,

                          Dividing the oceans, and the shattered glass.

        Don’t attempt to clean the mirror, the signatures  smudges have been there far too long, 

                                    –and also, it’s broken.

Both of our names  were written here,

                  this was no bathroom stall,

This was a compendium, 

an arrival,

        an ovation,

and  we had arrived like the proverbial trail of toilet paper stuck to a shoe. 

                  We followed the chemtrails,

                 We followed the monuments, 

                   I followed you into your inbox and  you let me breathe in there under the bright lights for awhile,

                                                                                                                                              forever ago.

Lost in a desert , if you will.

or to even marvel at the thought for a second, sidewinder.

On any occasion, for context,

some commentary:

Merely a mountaintop, closer than you think.

Merely a countertop, off in the distance.

Really only missing is the the stovetop and desktop,

and a table and chairs.

The desert ultimately needs nothing,

similar in scope to the frozen moon, in the frozen sky, in this frozen desert, in our frozen kitchen.

With a dozen needs, for a dozen days, and a dozen eggs, even in a dozen kitchens

We are frozen, and so is the night

I for one am always on board with frozen pizza,

and so is the night...

To get me interested in the desert, and in the mountains,

or any other ingredients for that matter,

I’ll need to bring the magnetism, an the red pepper flakes.

Like any good guest, I’ll carry it with me,

with your good graces under my bent elbow,

My other hand is empty, but my pockets are full to bursting.

( I can’t be empty, because I am frozen)

Waiting for your hand, that is instead full to bursting, with jawbreakers or heat-seekers or both.

This is my cross to bear,

This is my desert to cross.

Turning away from the widening gyre,

Taking my flinger off the space bar,

Here I come again!

Functionally or not,

Frozen or not.

Spinning away, reluctantly, repentantly,

veering upwards and out of the stadium,

magnetic or not,

mnemonic or not.

To conclude, and in context this time:

I hope this brightens your smile, sidewinder.

I hope this lights up something, as it passes through your blind spot, and careens headlong into traffic,

into pieces, into absolutely nothing, and sand.

Swimming upstream, just to make sure your salmon shirt is clean,

swimming upstream, to ensure your first in line to see the newest nature documentary,

your the only one in line, in this stream, among the other salmons,

the other demons,

in those lines, that is.

Getting dressed with the scorpions,

getting dressed up just like the scorpions,

when you finally wake up, that is.

when the light is brightest, that is.

finally waking the dead, when you wake up that is.

In the garage, with the dryer that is perpetually buzzing,

in the garage, with the trashcan that is perpetually full,

in the garage, still standing with those same scorpions, perpetually.

You’ll still fall asleep before the laundry is done,

one more song will turn into so many more songs but you wont finish any of them,

You wont be around for any of them,

and you wont sing any of them.

The demons here that are here, now,

the demons that are here, also.

Devouring light and contrast,

paying full price to witness

a solar eclipse,

a matinee,

a slaughter.

They will then turn to your dreams,

then turn their demon teeth and their demon eyes towards your loved ones.

They never had to stand in the garage among the scorpions,

sweating before work….

sweating ahead of the silence.

They never even had to swim upstream, or even climb the demonic stairs that never were mentioned, demonically,

the demonic demons that are gone, now, canonically.

your not so wild now,

infused with copper,

insulated ,

“and I was hugged so closely by the fiberglass”

inundated, by applause now…especially after that one,

“They ate it up”

“I ate it up”

Confused by both sleep and by streetlights, and by the applause too.

Coming up for air out of your hole,

to marvel at the sun,

to marvel, no more,

Code enforcement knows what you removed before you removed it,

once loved, now cited.

but still loved.

You have your badge and so do they///

death knows what you have done, and it whispers it about it after the game

You have your badge and so do they///

Go back in your hole,

under the bleachers,

Take your essays

and your touchdown passes, and

save it to your desktop,

files and c0des

files and c0des

fires and c0des

That is probably your best bet,

to save it,

“so you can eat it up “

“So I can eat it up”

unless you can get that fire going,,,,

unless, they eat it up,

Your manuscript, that is.

You’re manuscript, that is.

With the cupboard  wide open,

the spirits can wander in and out, and get caught in cobwebs not swept up since March.

With your mouth wide open, 

You are  just able to reach the dishes,

if only if you  could stretch out your arms a little further,

but you’re no martyr.

Knock away the crumbs and  some additional cobwebs on the top shelf,

write your name in cursive in the pensive layer of  dust,

an editorial,  to say the least.

When you do, you just might feel the wind from the wings of bats, and birds and  of dragons,

                    as for the dragons, you’ll feel their fire, too.

                                                        you’ll feel my fire, too.

 When you do, write your name again, and again.

step out of the kitchen

and climb to the top of the lighthouse,

lean over the balcony, just out of reach from the knives  and the leftovers,

                                                  and from the crowded cupboards,

                                                 and the growing gardens.

Step closer to the television and get lost in exclusivity,

                    You’ll know what it feels like to be a diamond, in this moment,

in this cafeteria, you’ll surely be lost.

          Away from the microwave, you’ll miss the heat,

          you’ll  surely end up  missing the microwaves, too.

and the spirits, even though they disappeared without a trace  at the very  beginning,,,

You’ll miss the forests that you wandered away from

                                                 and the buckets that you used to bring  water up from the well,

                    That water your carried  is colder than those spirits,

You spilled the water , and that was  honestly the best case scenario.

Go back to that well and look down into nothing,

                       retrace your steps and find nothing,

                 Look down at your feet and find nothing,

I hope you’ll turn the brightness down soon, its a little too much for me right now,

                                                                      nothing

is definitely  a little too much for me right now, anyways.

The blindfold is placed over my eyes,

and there is no darkness.

                 it is just  a jungle instead.

Complete with jaguars, and tigers, and empty shoeboxes

looking down  at  me from the treetops,

as if I weren’t the  prey

As if it was I who  was hunting them//  as if  it was I who  was haunting them

                    I move slowly,  about the trees,

looking down at empty shoeboxes  like fallen apples,

and the jaguars and the tigers were still there,  too.

I am no apex,

I am only among the trees and the  empty shoeboxes,

that look a lot like fallen apples.

Hallways too long, behind us now,

it has become hard to swallow, and the sound of your own voice is now  enough to make you cringe,

    ignoring all these warning signs and the flashing lights,

and ignoring the sound of your own voice

as well as  the number for poison control.

 The band playing in the                              background,

and  lightning strikes during the day, in the foreground,

in these dreams,

I can still hear the sound   of the footsteps like raindrops,

in these dreams,

like balloons popping  after coming into contact with  violent ceiling fans,

or scraping against the popcorn ceiling,,,,,,

But this room is too crowded and this house is too crowded,

and the popcorn ceiling is the perfect shade of blinding white.

in these dreams.

        There are too many birds on the wire outside,

I will find a new house, with a new voice and new birds on new wires.

I want to dream  new dreams of snakes chasing other snakes,

and I want to skip song after song after song

and not be penalized for it.

,,,, its been a long time since I have seen any snakes,

                    Let me be exhausted, let the snakes  instead come to me in my sleep.

                                                  Let me be clear,

There will be a new band too, and they will be in  all of my future dreams.

And new actors to replace the old, tired ones.

And they will drown out the echoes of  my footsteps

and your footsteps,

and the hissing snakes,  that are only just now visible,

and the ope            ning of doors,

                                         that hisssssssssssss behind you, in their own way.

                          This new  band will play all the hits,

but  I’ll end up in the garage, out of reach of the stars and the music and the streetlights,

                                                                 unpacking it all,

the good silverware and  the drum sets you didn’t remember buying and never played.

Carefully  laying furniture on its side like a wounded animal,

                                                                                                                                     too carefully, perhaps.

I am careful not to break any of the nice dishes, though.

                                             At least this dream has windows, and skylights even.

                           This is the new place where I can  dream  now , and I can even see the  sky from here,

in these dreams,

           I feel the ocean breeze blowing through my hair ,

in these dreams,

                                     or maybe its blowing in  from over the hilltop,

all  of this beauty,  suddenly compromised.

All of this  beau….anyways.

                                              All  this before I make  contact with the ceiling fan.

Caught in the longest line,

like your,

my foot in a bear trap.

11 items.

The light will go off, just ahead of me and the person in front of me,

who had 12 items,

and well be stuck with melting ice cream, together.

Standing at the edge of woods, looking now at a cabin that has no lights,

afraid to step on yet another bear trap.

We will melt together.

melting in our warm, entitled, sticky hands.

I’ll stand there,

mouth agape at yet another full moon,

with echoes pouring out

“take me with you“

and the moon smiles back, and whispers something about spare change.

There is talk of serial cereal behind me,

behind us, behind them.

Spoken in cipher,

sung in unison

shouted from balconies,

and

discussed behind empty shelves.

From beyond the produce aisle, and the catacombs that lie beneath.

far away from the apricots,

the ice cream has officially melted as I slither into a different mundane line,

amongst so many other snakes.

Still waiting my now neopolitan turn,

Shoes still squeaking on the waxy floor,

they even squeak when you don’t move.

Melting,

squeaking

with so many others,

and their ice cream,

and their bottles of bleach.

I will wait until the conveyer belts moves my 11 items,

waiting for the fluorescent lights to adjust to your

my eyes.

waiting patiently for the hot water to run out,

as the water waits patiently on me,

anxiously waiting to get even further away from the Apricots.

Counting  columns on the highway, counting speedbumps,

                                 Dodging coyotes and potholes alike,

although the two are not mutually exclusive.

 Traveling with your audience  of coffee cups, and straw wrappers and loose change,

some of which  take refuge under the seats, some of which,

                                                                       is only refuse.

             Focus on the on the biggest stage of all,

and quint to make out all the details.

focus on the tops of volcanos

focus on the descent.

                        You’re  aimed towards the sun, like precision artillery,

                      like icarus or

a pointed finger, or an obelisk,

                                                       or a basilisk.

You  forgot your poisonous  sunglasses at home on the kitchen counter.

The sun will still shine on your countertop, and on your clean, neatly stacked  plates

and on your ( now cold)  scrambled eggs, too.

Sunny side up, too.

The sun wont cook you’re breakfast, but you knew that.

You are taut like cast fishing poles, rigid,,

alluring,

                                            still thinking about the eggs.

Something is on the  other end, your just not sure if it’s a whale or

     just more tidal waves,

                          or adjacent freight trains,

Something has you by the neck,

Maybe it’s more commercials,

Maybe it’s the location of  the stolen art, or the piercing   static even,

You have arrived at your destination.

But be prepared to make more waves,

more tidal waves.

                  Shake hands at the zoo, and bump into people you barely know,

walk through the metal detectors and past friendly security guards,

leave your keys in your pocket even,

you are practically  made of metal anyways.

Remove the excess coinage,  and place them over your eyes,

The water isn’t nearly as deep here,,,,

Tread quietly towards this river,

Quietly,  past Sharon,

              Past Cerberus,

making more  silent waves as you walk,

as you silently  swim,

as you saunter deeper and deeper until your legs are no longer visible beneath you,

 all you see is more silent  waves,

                            just more tidal waves,

                                      and adjacent freight trains.