You’ll miss the rain when its gone,

you’ll miss scrolling and left and scrolling right,

your eyes cant keep up anyways.

but you’ll learn to type in the dark without looking,

That’ll go on the shelf,

with the epitaphs and and other accolades.

you’ll miss all the rest of your queues and

you’ll probably miss breakfast too.

You’ll miss the applause

all of the applause, deserved or otherwise.

You’ll also miss all of the refreshments,

…..especially the appetizers

The grass is already greener,

trust me, I can tell.

Are you feeling pensive and organic?

Because you overplayed your hand

trust me, I overplayed mine.

You had your title shot,

and I had mine,

and were already to the credits, now,

the long lonely credits,

so get your sunglasses on, already.

because mine fell between the seats.

Your name is on every letter,

and every signature is different.

Every creature,

benign and exquisite,

each better then the last.

Reduced to satire, and laughed out of the gated community,

exiled off to float in your very own dead sea,

exiled to bowl or golf by yourself,,,,,,,

floating through me,

buoyed by water wings,

buoyed by angels wings,

attached like barnacles,

biting at me like cannibals.

I can endure the crustaceans gathering at my ankles,

but the undead,

oh, the undead

sinking me lower,

below the vertebrates and more undead,

attached to my brain now,

parasites in unison,

preying on my thoughts,

praying over me.

He always walked in an wiped his feet,

and his signature was the same as mine,

and now their signatures were the same, too.

those neighbors,

those apparitions.

Dressed in muted shades of blue;

after midnight,

especially for midnight

…with good shadows?

…with good shadows.

Trembling hands hovering over silverware,

certainly unsure of sunrises, and also which utensils to use,

holding out for that particular silverware,

holding out for some kind of sunrise,

you are not at the dinner table , though,

your time at the long table has passed.

Your spurs gleam in the moonlight, cowboy.

They speak to you,

cowboy.

Crunching under your feet like your walking on broken glass,

or broken plates,,,

wait for your tumbleweeds to pass,

and for someone, anyone to sweep up that broken glass,

or broken plates,,,

You are not in a western.

and there is no one else in your corner now.

You were absent from our bonfires.

Now it’s just you and the howling winds,

You stand right where houses wish to stand,

in a neighborhood I hope they’ll never finish,

with feet you wish you had,

holding out for some kind of sunrise.

When your hands grab the pizza wheel,

while you were actually searching for the knives.

Basking in the blue light of the light of the refrigerator ,

basking in that new light, letting it hit your face,

and the cool breeze, is

well, cool.

It hadn’t occurred to you there was a new watch on your wrist.

A new detective on the wrist case.

It hadn’t occurred to you there had been a time change.

It hadn’t occurred to you there was light in your face,

blinding you,,,

the sun was in your face,

blinding you,,,,

or meteors shooting across the sky,

blinding you.

The room had been partially painted blue,

you have been partially painted blue,

floating,

like a buoy,

floating,

like your sleepwalking,

like a planet,

like a reckless meteor.

Be careful you don’t cut your hands digging around in that drawer.

Knives are knives,

Whether or not the sun is beating down on you,

down on your smiling face,

they are still knives ,

floating or not.

They grow in the corner,

Catching water like me,

with praying hands like me.

Making the same bird calls that I make with

praying hands

half-full of water

half-full of birdcalls,,,,

half-full of hallways,,,,,

They grow in the corner,

without any help from me.

Slipping through my praying hands,

into the valleys,

into the corners,

bleeding into the corners

bleeding onto the speakers

away from the sunshine,

away from the feedback

away from the birdcalls,

away from me.

Not quite dancing, but not quite laughing either,

I can see the the head and the necks of dinosaurs off in the distance,

no wait

Those are the tops of cranes…

Which I extend my very own neck to see,

I peek my head around corners, to assess,

to correlate,

to congregate.

My neck is frequently on full display, with the rubies and the emeralds of the world.

Which takes a great deal of balance and bravery,

Thats all it takes,

Balance and eventually.

There are so many birds in the sky,

somethings just need to be said.

I’ll never see again,

but at least I can swim,

at least I wont drown in the puddles.,

in the craters.

It would be best to protect your sides from passing cars

and

enemy gunfire,

as well as

staggering clifftops and sweltering suns, too.

You can radio for help but no one will respond, you are all alone out here,

on highways,

on islands,

and I’ll still never see again.

Exposed and submerged,

on highways,

on islands,

and you’ll melt too,

everything melts.

The things you thought your search history forgot,

are nothing but roses now,

The laundry you dropped behind the dryer,

will one day be roses as well.

You’ll remember the noble beasts and the black stars,

and you’ll remember them mostly as roses.

If you take off your glasses you could actually see them,

if you take off your helmet you could actually feel them,

the shadows, they are closing in.

As they crescendo,

as they dance,

and the rest of the roses bloom.

I still cant see them, and thankfully, the shadows cant swim, either.

I am in the deep end,

floating,

laughing,

laughing,

floating.

I can smell the roses.

The shadows occur when things die,

when you have spilled something on them,

poured water onto roaring flame.

You have spilled something in the pool,

the pool in which I inhabit.

You were careless with your glasses,

and with your liquids,

and your roses, too.

and they’ll melt,,,,,,,,,,

Those things are alive and buzzing now,

the shadows,

swimming now,

circling around me now,

like sharks,,,,

like daggers,,,,,

Those things you forgot and neglected,

those things you saw from your balcony,

those things you threw from your balcony,

the things that are now blowing in the breeze,

they were anything but tumbleweeds.

those were the roses.

Now here they are, ready to get up and have breakfast with you,

shadows and ghosts,

and you will have the coffee ready,

and they’ll have their feet up, too.

They are ready to grow old with you.

Ready to use your water, and your blender.

You’ll have to feed them, and groom them,

and make their smoothies.

and pick up the pieces when they fall apart,

when they melt,

when you smile

when you melt.

 

 Laying among the rubble, and the toy cars,

and the mountains eclipsed only by molehills,

& watchtowers.

                         A small sun,

As small as a marble,

smaller perhaps,,,

smaller perhaps,,,

pale orange, and perfectly smooth.

Nothing rhymes with orange.

I’ve seen this before on television,

I have seen this sun and that sun, and

all the other sun’s,

I have heard all the ooo’s and ahhh’s,

                                                    and I have filed them away.

My hat is on the other side of the fence,

I can see it, curled up like a cat, just out of my reach.

It is not keeping the sun out of my eyes  laying there.

I’ve seen this written on the bathroom mirror.

But it was lost,

[[ I lost it]]

                                              In the same messy bathroom  with the  foggy mirror.

                                                          Lost like a moth in a dark, dark desert,

finding beautiful  desert flowers  in the night  then fluttering away looking for another source of light and water and nectar,

when the moth finally realized it wasn’t a butterfly,

when the moth realized it wasn’t  nuclear

when it landed on a the thorn of a cactus,

and the bats and the cultures circled above,

waiting for the moth to slip off the                             thorn,

                 off the throne.

Guitars playing all the while  in the background.,

strumming gently, like the night itself.

Lost for forty days and forty nights and finding nothing but sand,

                             and dust from the wings of moths,

It’s absence,

the absence,

echoed throughout the void, and it trickled down the window until it settled at the bottom of the canyon.

                                              Burnt, beautiful and wet.

We were just rambling, we are lost in the hallway…

A lightbulb missing from a vanity,

in that same messy bathroom.

Fallen from a galaxy that is really missing it’s sun.

It was the homerun that they never got back.

The other sun.

This one in the sky.

In my sky.

The one next laying next to me.

My sun is laying  next to me.

This one looked down.

This one looked at me.

They knew where this sun ended up,

among the dead and dying leaves,

on the other side of the fence with my cat   hat

among the sparkling stars and the sparkling dust from the wings of moths,

among the

among the dead and dying,

Among the groves of trees,

                             and the dead and the dying still.

That  sun knew and  that sun cared,

But that sun in the sky, without arms,

and with the clouds offering nothing but rain and wind and fits of rage,

and always talking on the phone, making the sun miss important calls.

This other sun, busy with groceries,

& opening and closing the garage door

The lost sun,

settled among the stones, the tennis balls and  and the rest of the  wreckage,

Laying comfortably  there in the dirt, shining on nothing,

those neon green sun’s,   ////// Fading to yellow

////// Fading to black

half buried, half alive,

burnt,  beautiful and wet.

 

 

You start to inadvertently create shadow puppets while opening string cheese,

standing in the light of the moon and the light of the refrigerator,

                                   no shoes on and smiling in the dark.

                                  with a knife in one hand and cheese in the other,

(there’s another story here entirely) 

                                                                            and no one is watching your puppet show,

and no one is watching your commas, either.

Do with them what you please.

                        In your cold  kitchen,

in the middle of the night, with not much to look at,

but plenty to drink.

Its like a desert.

It is a desert.

                      and still  your feet are colder then they have ever been,

          You’ll be haunted by the comments you left on YouTube,

and you’ll be haunted by your footprints you left behind,

and the breadcrumbs and the machines  with no life left in them, you’ll be haunted by all of it.

                 No one is here to sweep up the dirt and the guts and nuts and bolts  you left behind.

When you staggered out into the universe, knife in hand

out that front door, and you settled right into the sunlight, like you knew it all along.

Like you knew where the knife came from, and why,,,,,

               Don’t focus on the knife,

settle into the spotlight, settle into me.

Brace yourself yourself with a capital B,

Because its going to hit you all at once,

the Bullseye on your chest isn’t just going to wash off,

so you can stop scruBBing now.

                      It isn’t quite a tattoo,

                                              But you are gonna be stuck with it for the rest of forever.

Lift up your head and your spirits if that’s whats carrying you,

if it’s the  Balloons carrying you, then hold on tight,

but know they travel at the same rate that the spirits do.

And if that’s whats keeping you afloat,  then so Be it.

 Waiting to be overcome like that, By air or By Beast or By Burden,

plow your fields and string up some more Balloons,

                                     and Be ready for that inevitable flight.

Make sure the sandBags are full too,

for the inevitable  descent, too                                                ,hell,

You can just  steal the sand  straight  from the hourglasses.

 turn  the volume all the way up so you cant here the sirens Blaring anymore  and the

Buzzing insects  sound like

                                                                                                      ,well,  

                                                         Buzzing insects, still,

and the static  on the TV will Be so quiet now it will Become just a color.

But you’ll not be able to drown out the stampede  of  incoming air,

A wash of                 gray.

A rush of                   gray.

And wait for the sunlight to knock you off your feet,

                                   Blow your head clean off your shoulders,

leaving what is left  waiting to Be overcome,,,,

 

 

 

Maybe there isn’t enough hot air for me to blow bubbles anymore,

                                                                      there is enough to float, though.

              Enough to float through the rivers and through the valleys,

I will be below the  buzzing swarms of locusts and out of range of any sonar,

meaning no bat or submarine will be able to locate me,

                                      and I wont care because I will be on my back,

out of reach of most everything,

and I wont care because for now the volcano is silent,

and I am silent and so is everyone else, you could hear a pin drop, but the pin is silent too.

                                I will be busy, silently///

  I will be busy thinking of   cars being  washed,                silently///

I will be ornate,,,,,,,for now                                                    silently///

                             harmless  emails fluttering into inboxes like blowing leaves,

and pins falling from the sky  like  a silent, surgical  rain.

I will be on my back, swimming among the dead, and the leaves and the discarded emails, that have now  somehow ended up on MY back porch,

making snow angels out of whatever this is on the ground.

making a fool out of myself, whatever I am on, on this ground.

                              They have reattached my eye,

I do not know what they were planning to do with it,

but it was because I attacked my own eye.

They are putting me on trial for this,,,

It was mine, and what is left of it is packed in suitcases and is staring back at me, resting among the underwear and the socks, and chirping birds, too?

I will leave town with it,  no one can say I stole my own eye.

                                       No one can say I stole my own eye.

They are sharing their   dreams with me, they all are, like it is a packed lunch and I forgot mine,,,

                                                                                                  which I did.

             Why couldn’t I just share my own eye with them?

They have given me so much.

A sandwich with the crusts cut off, on eye  rye

and

graham crackers

                                        and a chance,

(which was tangier then I thought it would be)

                        This particular  lunch was higher in carbs then I thought it would be.

I was sidetracked by the thought of lunch,

Lets get back to the dreams,,,,,,,,

They are sharing their dreams with me,

about being embarrassed in a swimming pool,

,,,,,,,,,,it is too hot out here for this story,

I need to cool off,,,,

let me float on my back again,,,,,

as I submerge,

as I reconvene,

As I pray,

the brave  onlookers offer an outpouring of support,

                                                               and the fisherman tip their caps to me,

they are kind to me and attempt to shine light on the darkest depths,

these parts don’t seem as deep now,

what with the light and all.

what with the music and all.

 this movie doesn’t seem  so bad now,

the suspense and the lighting and the scene with the fountain and the women that are crying in the rain,,,,,

                       Wait until the movie critics get their teeth on it, though,

they wont see it that way.

They wont see it the way I saw it.

I will shine a light on these parts, despite what the movie critics say,

despite what they have ripped to shreds, I still love it.

 I love the lighting and the suspense, and the lighting and the scene with the fountain and the women that are crying in the rain,,,,,,

And I can hear those emails hitting the inboxes again, like killer bees, stinging away at me and everyone else,

                like hammering nails,

like the  crack of home runs,

They cant float forever, there isn’t enough hot air for the both of us,

and so they will sink,

and there will be bite marks left behind,

 and eventually the lake will dry out and the emails will be pried open like clams and read,                                         and there will be no pearls,

                                        the bite marks will still be visible, though.

but  they wont be all bad,

there might even be some  bargains buried down here among the dinosaurs,

                get yourself a good deal on the necessary amount of kitchen knives a person would need,

                                                  and a cutting board, so not to chip the quartz,

and some other fossils too,

minus the bite marks.

---

 

 

 

I did my job,

I held up my end of the bargain, and I held on tightly to the other end of the rope.

I weathered the moon and the stars and tides, and it was furiously beautiful.

Something can be said for weathering the weather,

keep that in mind,

Quicksand isn’t as dangerous as the movies make it seem,

keep that in mind,

but I would still step over it.

I will always step over it.

I will however stop to pick up fallen bird nests and I will not devour any unbroken eggs like some carnivore I will call them on my own and one day I will release them to the sky and I will cry and twirl your hair to console myself when they do  fly away because they are gone well past the sunset.

I will continue to  write run-on sentences and I  will watch them disappear with the birds I rescued and subsequently released,

                              just have your nets ready, please.

I broke my back, and ran my fingers through my hair, and what do I have to show for it?

besides my insides spilling out like in a horror movie and  a haircut that doesn’t even look that much different then it did before?

A net with a bird shaped hole in it?

Some thoughts with holes in them, too?

You should have just gone fishing…

that’s what this is all about,  a haircut and some misspelled words, and so many questions….

Am I talking to loud?

Is this easier to read in italics?

                                                 How long can I stare at this screen before I go blind?

I still have so many questions about

the similarities between octopi and cacti…

aside from the syllables, the domain, the vertebrae or lack-there-of, and the fact that one coexists with coyotes,

I will howl with them,

               I am one of them.

                                                                               I can howl with the best of them,

leave me  out with the blowing wind and laundry that didn’t dry all the way, let me gnash my teeth and growl at nothing.

Light me on fire, I will burn for everyone, for those in my ears and for those who are already asleep,

I will burn for you, too,

I will wake up early for you, too

I will run over the hills for you, too.

My hands hurt from holding this rope so tightly, so  please,

                                                I would like to let go now

Let me go, and I will fall like an angel,

                          there will be no belly flops or swan dives,

                                   we are not even sure this is the deep end…

Put away your nets and your outstretched arms and the trampolines, too.

Send in the clowns, we could all use a laugh.

                         I will fall,

       like an angel I, promise,

                                                                    like a coyote, I promise.