Something dark, that wont show stains,

something that will however collect hair

and dust, collectively.

Caught in that lukewarm air, collectively.

Caught between lukewarm updrafts and lukewarm outcroppings,

caught, circulating, albeit routinely,

Melting at room temperature, casually.

Well want to go further,

deeper,

collectively.

He drones on and on and on

going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about

guardrails and other types of suspensions albeit routinely.

As if we aren’t begrudgingly aware bridges exist in the first place.

all at once,

feeling free tonight,, feeling free now.

[practically blind tonight,

parasitically, me tonight .

My receding nostrils,

vibrato, crescendo, etc.

The arch, the dark, the daring,,,

alto, tenor, soprano…etc, buffering….

My shining something,, were speeding,

spreading,

careening,

buffering

and whatever it is was you sent me can wait,

down whatever embankment, can wait,

in the line at the buffet, cant wait,

The feeling in my feet is wet, and it can wait.

even the guardrail, it will wait.

The Jello, it can wait.

The embankment, is still waiting….

Were busy still speeding, spreading,

waiting….

It can wait, I can wait, at any house,

but none; in particular.

It’s getting worse, and brighter, and louder, and bookmarked.

I am getting worse, brighter, and louder, and bookmarked.

The guardrail, it can wait,

The bookmark, it can wait.

Laughing, drowning, organic and

sped up to a dial tone,

to a dull roar,

But still buffering….

What happens to the trees?

and the water with the hair in it,,

to the streams,

to the columns,

to the pendulums.

to the fine print especially.

and to the trees, with all the water in them, even? still?

It sounds better through both ears,

whistling through,

blowing through the canyons,

bellowing, although almost out of time now,

out of battery.

A battle against sightlessness,

selflessness,

boring, but someone is still listening.

I can hear the careful breath on the closed circuit,

and I can hear the crickets,

on that same closed circuit.

minus the bandwidth,

through the canyons,

through me,

but someone is still listening.

No more drafts,

no more sleep, either.

as a screen flitters, either.

I flitter ,

like sleek silver,

a hummingbird,

stainless, timeless,

in my dreams, rummaging through the cabinet,

like a hummingbird,

and that’s your inspiration,

there’s your invitation.

Were suppose to be sweeping the chimney,

and she’ll calls us by our childhood names.

There is no chimney here, and no weeds here either,

but we are warm,

there is barely any light here,

but we are warm.

I get caught up watching for meteors,

watching out for ropes,

for waters, about to rise.

Watching for shadows,

and seeing some of those same reflections.

Tiptoeing with a flashlight is one way to go,

but ill surely choose another,

and break my ankle,

and fall on my sword,

loud enough to wake everyone up ,too.

hypothetically,

cowardly.

Maybe you’ll eventually see the shadows I was waiting up for

and you’ll be less scared of them than I am or ever was.

You’ll be less frenetic than I am, than I ever was.

You’ll be more kinetic than I am, than I ever was,

at the moment,

up to my waist, at the moment

and up to my chin, at some point.

Up to my recollections,

which are wholly underwater now,

swimming with me,

swimming beside me

and how many times can I repeat it

copy and pasted.

crisp, cowardly sounds,

strokes, and sins that bounce off the walls,

off of me.

copy and pasted

copy and pasted

copy and pasted

off of those those sometimes pastel reflections,

and off an eventual , pastoral cliff.

Just because you haven’t seen any snakes, doesn’t mean there aren’t any snakes out and

about in the new heat of

the new years.

Within the crests of new waves that we will save for the light of the the new day,

for the new cracks in the new armor,

is mostly flooded with brand new floodlights,

programs, brochures

silver, and new.

Out in droves,

the same as you.

Shining light on the empty orchards,

and the backyards.

and all that the starlight leftover on the ground,

that broken glass that is fucking everywhere now,

that broken glass we all gave up on, and all those fucking endings.

Smiles as new stars

and I can smell the sweet fucking smell of sawdust ,

sleeping above the canopy,

loving about the panoply

moving as a statue,

or not

slouching, or

not.

I left the original windows behind.

saving the music,

salvaging the ordinances.

Wrap up the leftovers,

and when the light catches the nails that nothing hangs from ,

yet.

I’ll be there,

There I am operating both machines

with both hands

,,,,,,,and there I am

opening the leftovers,

in silence,

yet.

…..in cold,

A lot to do with fire,,,,

draped around my neck,

like your hair,

like a necklace,

like a sunburn

A towering inferno.

Strings like a violin,

striking a chord,

a vein, so loud

so taught

and so violent.

On it’s side,

so far away from the sky,

far away from up,

furthest from up, actually.

Where the ladder belongs, actually.

On it’s side

On my side

belabored , bewildered,

afraid of heights, actually,

playing dead, actually.

I can see the steam rising from the ground,

even though there is none.

No ground, and certainly no steam.

Certainly not.

I am starting to pay more attention to to the cracks and the crevices,

and the tectonic plates,

and to the proclamations and lamentations, as well.

Whatever is written on the sidewalk, in the stars.

now I am starting to think of skeletons, and now that’s all I will think of from here on out.

That, and how the cats eyes catch the sunlight that peeks just past the curtains,

Our curtains.

Your fountain.

You’ll catch that same streak of light, like a ball of yarn,

and I’ll help you

catch it

bury it

maintain it

Wash your face and hands with it,

even though its strictly decorative and belongs with the other decorations,

and isn’t to be used for your hands or face,

Tell me if anything strikes you as odd about it.

About it not being in the attic with the rest of the holidays.

…about that.

Bury it amongst the snakes, and the scorpions( which by the way, I am seeing less and less of)

still my blood is cold

and the light escapes me,

escapes us entirely ,

That same streak of light,

The best we can do is wet footprints on a hot afternoon,

The best we can do, is pay more attention to the cracks and crevices,,

and the commas;

Pay more mind to the seam on which we rest,

to the breaking plates, which we’ll watch from a distance.