Too old for stripes,

and growing out and away from all of that

away from that tree, away from all those mistakes, and the weeds,

away from hell on earth,

Away from any tree, away from all the apparitions.

Too old for stripes,

too old for those glowing eyes at night,,,,

Too old for any semblance of a singing voice as well ,

or singing, probably .

For what its worth, we did warm it up,

we pressed the wrong button, stroked the wrong key,

visited the wrong minor league park,

no one was playing,

but the grass was there , laid out for us.

and the time flew by us, flies by.

Swept away by us, and the managers, and the fireworks at the end of the night.

and we fought to get our hands on it ,

to hold onto the granules that blew in from the enormous wind,

The label says low fat but I don’t think its really low fat,

The skies say fireworks but I don’t think its really firework’s.

just like I don’t think these are the major leagues,

I don’t think these chalk lines line up,

and this is what I am coming to grips with now,

coming to blows with it, feeling for the clouds.

There’s a lot of baseball recently,

and this is what I am coming to grips with despite enduring longer pauses from just about everyone,

If I can even get it out, that is.

despite always having to slow down, despite my excitement

regardless of the speed, or speech, or anything special, at all.

These are not yet the major leagues, not quite.

If I can even get it out, any of it, that is.

Just north of the flowers,

feeling for my words that feel out of my pocket,

out of my mouth, like broken teeth and i saw them too, escaping me

like broken teeth.

Everyone else as they fell and scattered away like baby spiders, like broken teeth.

Dragging my fingers through the empty air, through my empty mouth.

Then slightly , gently across empty concrete ,

then over the petals and flowers of the potted plant, stroking it like a sleeping dog, feeling for something, reaching for anything.

instead finding only that painted porcelain pot,

the collar of that sleeping dog; an industrial complex.

All of the the bell (s) that goes along with it,

careful to not break anything , or destroy something, and still were coming up short,

were still focusing on the backs of spiders’

and all the young that goes along with it , and the bell (s) , the angel (s).

this one is on my tongue and I’m finding the keyboard soundly, suddenly , sending it into shock and me with it

This is a longer one,

I can feel it around my neck and through my ears and its all too loud,

ticking like a clock, findings words, any word, the perfect one,

with the bells,

with the angels , just north of the flowers.

Well maintain well past when we should ; and the past itself too.

outlast the crescendo, take all those victories in stride.

Even the ones built in water , written in shorthand,

smelling too, of shortbread.

We’ve never been here before.

The ones where we are nothing , were nothing.

Even our fingers are floating , just hovering above the keyboard,

expanding like a balloon, like a t-shirt filled up up with air and surrounded by water in a pool

tucked into shorts,

after a cannonball, for instance.

tripping over landlines ,

falling right off the page, after that cannonball.

Ready to burst, and we let it go too soon,

inevitably drifting up towards the powerlines,

and subsequently falling right off the

page.

its so

it is so,

going by too fast,

too smooth, , golden and sleeping,

and staring back, still.

Down that way,

with the way its going.

Checking in, with the dull and the dying,

leaning on the dialtones and nothing is happening ,

Learning about the dialtones; about the defense.

and on and on about the dull and the dying,

and the golden , and the sleeping.

Its not my breeze,

its not my bronze,

warmer in the house, or we thought it was,

waiting for the rain to come or the snakes to bite

waiting to turn our backs to the robots, and away from the microwaves, too.

Its all wet, and it keeps coming out that way.

Just carrying the umbrella you’ll develop tennis elbow,

you’ve never played tennis.

Not for years, at least,,

next time there will be no breeze,

not for bronze, at least.

Let it flail,, let it bite down.

Cloned and left on the couch,

while the other half one went out for errands,

for seconds.

Snippets and fragments of haikus left behind, like half drunk milkshakes,

a flurry, and we’re milk, after being exposed to the sun

turned backwards,

after being exposed to the sun

I am dizzy just holding my head up, carrying it like a sword.

Looking down, and not even keeping track of what was in the mailbox,

Let that sink in.

We’re milk; we’re flailing,

carrying all that weight and those sounds like a sword ,

growing right from where you left off,

not really sure if cursive is the way to go out, to sign off,

or if the answer is silence,

or silence.

Out of body

and dumb,

I’ve ruptured; to be fair,

trying to push its way out of me, I am .

Numb and repeating myself

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee they are.

I’ve already ruptured; to be fair.

dumb, and spiraling under warm lights,

under the warm release,

and now without it; despite it.

Howling at the moon, because of it.

Now that the that current and the caper have slipped through my fingers,

all of that pageantry, the mystery,

and what’s left of the of the foundation ,

all illuminated and thriving, and gone.

Only visible from the very top anyways.

“Over the top, grandiose,

Impressive and imposing, in appearance or style

especially pretentiously so,“

That’s the reaper.

Whatever was on the page, between the lines, feeling around for awhile,

exactly what’s on the page, and what’s in the water, ( its turquoise)

the very definition, exactly what touched our feet, ( it’s turquoise)

We were still able to add a few more chapters,

a few more chances,

a few more drops,

a few more anemones;

to thrive, to bleed;

to postmark,

among the grandiose, among the living,,

the thieves and the second thoughts, ( its turquoise)

with my back to the valley; back in the valley,

until we get it right/

We just now learned how to go back easier,

to refresh,

It goes by too fast, too smooth; like a comet.

Even when were learning new things,

.On my back, eyes like onyx,

plagiarizing myself,

nursing my wounds but keeping my comments to myself.

Using two words when I should just just one.

down that way, through the hole in the fence,

waiting for them to let their guard down,

waiting to see that comet streak across the sky , and I can finally see my breath.

waiting to take it too far,

and I can see my breath.

When I close my eyes I can see the sunset,

can feel it take hold,

can see

sunspots,

solar flares,

or hummingbirds, maybe.

Until I can see my breath.

But your feet were too hot to catch it all, to mop any of it up,

slowly sliding across the cold floor.

Like a spider,

spread out, waiting

wrapped up, wailing.

To start a sentence that way; to start forever that way,

to fear the spiders and the slow motion, especially from three stories up,

but

but,, nothing

but ,

and beyond.