tidal waves, and reruns

bear down on me, as I bear down on them.

and on the bacteria that has always been with me, and I am

submerged , and a glowing certain shade of green as we approach that point of the bridge,

with me until the end, with me on that bridge,

with me when I cant write, or think

and with me as something rattles away in the other room,

the cat tower,

probably,

a tiger,

most likely,

A pharaoh walking,

trembling ,

certainly,

tenaciously,,,,,

Gargoyles and the crows look down on you, the audience too.

lightning at their backs even

lightning across their faces,  even,

and I find that you don’t smile….odd.

and when you you don’t smile,, now were even.

and you’ll certainly need more magnets,

more jazz,

more lightning.

You’ll need to unsubscribe from all your other mailing lists,

to even come close to the colors that make up the horizon,

to come close to singularity,

to block out the solar flares,

This is no spare change situation, this is maximum velocity.

This is not letting the wraiths and foxes wrap you up in their wispy trails, 

and slipping the unspoken spare change out of your pocket,

this is not saying too much,

this was from October, and now here we are,

talking yet again about spare change//

Admit to yourself, and the wraiths and the foxes and whatever agency it is they report to

that you did indeed lose the board game and all then pieces to it, as well.

admire the wraiths and

kill the foxes,

You’ll need more magnets for that. 

you’ll walk the gallows for that, 

you’ll need more metal than I currently have available, at the very least.

you’ll also need extra game pieces, which I do not possess,

in this meta, in this climate,

Last October,

all that theater, all that jumping around,

Last October,

all those obstacles, and specters abound, 

and all the game pieces which I do not posses.

only to slightly widen the canyons and to brighten your smile and mine… slightly.

update nothing,

without the instructions, I lost those too.

  leave all the smudges and handprints on the mirror, too.

what’s written smeared on the mirror that is.

 Please just leave enough room to see your smile, and mine.

become a phantasm, please.

The audience will tell you if they think you’ll need more magnets, which you will.

They will tell you if your saying too much,

to slow down and

to fly further….

Just like the crows and those gargoyles,

just the auditors in the audience,

They’ll tell you what to do with the rest of your magnets,

and who you’ll need to saw in half,

and what price to charge for admission.

Not if your a phantasm they cant, 

not if your a pharmacist they cant,

not from behind the glass they cant,

not with the lighting across your face they cant,

not without remembering where they left off last October, they cant.

Least of all actually seeing the shadows,

and stepping over tripwires and open mic nights,

and feeling the glow of the pewter, sitting on the table in front of you,

in terms of net- neutrality, behind a screen,

sitting on the table in front of you,

silver at best.

Laughter at it’s finest.

Silver being so good at being second best,

lost and found by a wandering shepherd, a second time,

a silver time,

a second chance.

Laughter at it’s fucking finest.

fire me into the sun,

careening, spiraling,

ostensibly a rocket,

flailing and forging,

ostensibly a rocket

Hand delivered into yet another mouth,

light years, lifetimes, later,

…many months later,

a perfect delivery into another vacuum,

a swan dive,

without any swans present.

I can choose to swim back, with dust all over my shoulders

or sail back or stay adrift even,

or stay aflame, with dust all over my shoulders,

all over the kitchen floor,

the choices, the curses, the swans, all positing my position (s)

while stars streak around us, and I struggle to find out which puzzle pieces go where,

hands full of sapphires,

or bluegrass,

the sentence will stop short, I will be stop shor…

My eyes wont be able to lock onto anything,

except you,

despite you, despite my ears and my arteries,

despite everything ,

despite the missing puzzle pieces and the utter lack of sapphires.

My eyes wont be able to lock onto anything, we are not trained that way.

except for what’s stored in the lock box,

and I shield my eyes from the sun and from everything else,

best that I can at least.

the baritones tell me, in deep, stretching voices, ” we are not trained that way”

my eyes, your eyes, meet at the bottom of the hill,

I’m falling from our sun, to the bottom of the hill,

rolling with you, without you,

well meet at the bottom of our hill,

despite the utter lack of sapphires.

Watching perfect signs,

warning signs

sing perfect songs,

along perfect lines,

among perfect right angles and a waning moon

laid out on the couch, the cross.

among us, between us.

that hollow moon // a string of lights,

a canyon, a purple sunset;

I catch the light between my eyes,

tucked between the light already in my eyes

let me go

let me go

let me glow

the light in my eyes, too.

Look closely in the bushes, you’ll find more than an organ donor card in there,

looming politely, you graceful apparition,

over my keen shoulders and I know your keen, complicated smile is behind me,

breathing succinctly, a bereaved vacation for those lips,

over my shoulder, en route, en masse.

Look closely in the bushes , you’ll find more than my teeth in there;

all the way

out there,

with you,

over there.

and there was silence,

and then there were the pit vipers.

Pivoting to me ; confiding in me.

Comfortable with me and I can get comfortable with them, too.

Even sharing a room, and even a root beer on a warm-blooded day,

catching up as snakes tend to do.

Sitting with arcing currents, our feet propped up on dusty beanbags,

crouching just behind the trashcans, and coiled up at my feet.

catching up as currents tend to do.

I can arch my back like them,

like the currents that buzz past my head,

like further fastballs,

whizzing by, walking through the fire.

and there goes the third one.

I love the new but am head over heels for what is old, too,

and I can run through those walls, ( I’ve done it before)

and I can jump over those turnstiles ( I’ve done it before)

and there goes the third one.

No matter how my heels feel, I’ll fall heels first,

not quite a nosedive,

\\\ feet first, about you, lets talk in the kitchen,

a nosebleed alone with you in the kitchen,

for you, in the kitchen.

I didn’t need a chair, or a choir

and you didn’t need to feel the cold air rush across your legs, but you did anyways,

it rushes by us and through us, we are like screen doors, or rivers.

and the wind easily howls through all of us.

The wreath up so high, higher than any outstretched hands can reach,

and the howling, belligerent winds, or rivers.

This is our waterloo, this is our rockets-red-glare, the great pyramids at Giza.

This is our wreath, up high, on a pedestal.

A crown jewel, a chance at knighthood, extra condiments at no additional charge.

A standing ovation, from a pedestal.

There are only lesser metals for now, and the other precious gems just out of reach, and we know the

pearls are deep under the currents.

There are more doors and other pedestals, and countless oysters that are

worth far more than our wreath up high, but not by much.

I can see shining between the waves, between the crack in the door,

at least someone knows the value

at least someone isn’t rambling,

at least someone isn’t hiding.

I’ll try to decipher which instruments are making which sounds, and you can figure out where the predators are camouflaged.

I’ll just end up tripping over the instruments and the predators to in the dark room in which they are stored or ( camouflaged )

( and I’m half asleep_)

In the dark room in which they are played, when they are played
( and I’m half asleep_)

distilled, in various installments, blended into madness, into darkness.

Ill try to decipher the wall paper and decode the color of the paint before I climb the mountain,

It only took one coat, that I can tell.

Ascending into madness, into darkness,

(and finding where exactly to put my feet)

( I’m still trying to find where I put my feet)

There it hangs, like a star, in every way, above me, better than me.

( camouflaged)

Except its artificial and not glowing, but its a star in every other way.

and still away from me, our of reach with or without the chair.

(enraged, and still half asleep_)

Laughing at me, as only a wreath can laugh in the middle of the night,

except its not laughing , and its still not glowing , but its laughing in every other way.

I was able to get it down, however.

Down from the towers, descending from where I ascended to, originally,

organically,

( I’m still trying to find where I put my feet)

These weren’t the towers I was meant to scale or siege.

I’ll remember those towers, and how I truly know nothing about them.

and I can climb back into bed, of my high horse,

off of my pedestal,

into waters I know and look for stars that I am familiar with.

The cold air still rushing across my legs, and face,

making screen doors out of us, all of us.

and I can still hear the instruments, because I have sidestepped them, for now.

stepped around them like they were merely sleeping, eyes squinted, holding my breath, for now.

still rambling, still breathing, for now.

We can revisit the wreath and it’s place in the sun tomorrow,

with or without a chair, with or without the sun,

with or without the camouflage.

sprung from the waxy lava of a volcano,

crawling slowly

shoulder to shoulder with the thunder,

and on the back of the tender lightning,

notated in so many perilous essays,

and tailing so many perilous meteors,

and you, and more and more forest fires.

There you were, perilous you.

dragged out of the flames , born from them

Bright because of them.

Kicking and screaming with some of the other receipts, some of the other drafts,

and more and more forest fires,

kicking and screaming with them.

The tape is stuck here, so too is the narrator.

The tape is stuck here, so too is this narrator.

You were careful not to miss the turnout, the scenic overlook,

the mystery novel,

or the sequel.

In the ring you are nothing, on this mountain you are nothing,

you’ll miss the cues from your corner, and the calls that come from above , too.

The beginning of which was spoken word,

The crescendo of which was instrumental.

The middle part was mostly water, mostly,

We can head back down the mountain now, wheezing and wiping soot off of our shoulders,

rescued and recused all in the same paragraph!

All on the same mountaintop!

Chased by those familiar growling dogs from my dreams,

down that bleeding mountain.

They don’t burn quite as brightly as you,

or the forest fires even,

or move quite as quickly as the meteor.

We are lost in the weeds and in the clovers and our own dreams,

carving up this new road ; these new passions,

these new weeds, those new lenses.

We are wrapped up in the chase, warped by this chase now.

We are this chase now, incarnate and so fourth,

We are this chase now,, dog costumes or not.

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.