Cryptic pictures

lining the walls, like climbing cracks,

or perhaps just lines, without overthinking it.

Pictures of you,

pictures of climbing cracks,

like expanding vines,

breathing but somehow suspended,

I can explain….

Alive and standing,

Alive and suspended,

like you

breathing…. but without overthinking it.

like you

Unlike most pictures, hanging in most places and holding it’s breath(s)

more similar to sculpture in that sense ,

You are missing from the wall,

but holding onto me,

Your breath is missing from this room too, especially when its cold,

especially when I am cold,

I can explain…

A sound , a setting, without overthinking it;

Definitely discerning but paramount to the clever climbing vines eventual atrophy,

clinging eventually, to me and to you , too.

and haunting us, more than a few times.

The lot lines mean what they mean,

they divide what they divide,

they breathe the same way we breathe,

the way they breathe

and after all, it is quite loud.

The buzzing, really is quite loud.,

Seeing if those are wires I’m really seeing,

and if those really are wires,

I’m

falling,

I am probably already gone.

The downed transformer or electric box

or whatever it is I am looking at,

looks a lot like a peacock, I think,

If I reach out to touch it,

I AM SURE it will make the make the same sound an elevator button makes when pushed,

….I think.

Or it might bite me, probably.

I look to the cocoon for support,

visible only from my sideview mirror.

I watched it glow grow

like headlights, approaching or not approaching,

clinging to me,

or not clinging to me , in other cases.

Nothing ever emerged though,

…in me either, thank god

Just time passed on the highway, sliding under overpasses,

and the constant dread that comes with

hoping the deer move away from the road,

empty,

hanging,

thrashing,

passing,

and still so attached, as a blur,

a mirage,

an ornament, eventually.

no one ever underestimated our complacency, that’s for sure.

no one ever underestimated our trajectory, that’s for sure.

all that rhythm and that tension,

all that synthesis,

that’s for me,

the cocoon can have the rest,

even all the fucking recollections,

especially the fucking recollections.

It’s all pink behind me,

all pink beneath me,

all right to suffocate me.

I still have managed to avoid all the oil slicks,

somehow.

I know that some people still cherish their parking lots,

for some reason.

I kneel down, and all I get is a knee on my own throat ,

as well as my initials in some wet cement, eventually..

The cats eyes can catch the light pivoting off the appliance,

just like you can catch the light, keep it tightly in a headlock, and love it.

Alive in the valley, the groans will grow louder just like the vines reaching upward.

I will have to help you bury the light and some of the skeletons, all without any signal whatsoever.

Bury them tightly between the crawlspaces and the crevices, and sweep the dust out from under it, too.

Adjacent from the towels that we just use for decoration, too.

Distressing about devices and warranties and the cold of wintertime , in a downward spiral now…

Surrounded by subway tile, and the leftovers that were left-out,

Their your wings, your song (s), is are indistinguishable from the brown sugar sprinkled here and there,

or is is dust from the wings of moths, or the remnants of cereal, or victims of circumstance, or a mail in rebate, even.

change filter change filter change filter change filter

The sentinel screams in red ink…..

Cradle those moths, and the dust from their wings as well , and please

keep the doors closed, and the cold will follow,

keep the doors closed, and I can finally stay close.

On Friday,

I am rusting, crumbling, like a folding chair

all consuming and being devoured at the same time,

like a folding chair,

to become inordinate, inanimate and into deafening silence all at once.

For my sake and yours, I can establish my position,

my deafening silence,

which is seated in a folding chair, arms folded,

resisting me and mine.

Seated in the chair closest to the cake and the sprinkles and the rest of the colors and napkins and other

party favors,

its someone’s birthday, somewhere,

careful, just a bit closer and ill be in the fireplace at this point,

I’m here, but someone else is gone, probably.

I am distant, and still trying to reach you,

to redirect, to contort and to confront,,,,

let me sing to you and stumble through my words,

thanks for stumbling with me.

I have noticed the birds get bigger with each passing day, and eventually carrion wont be enough.

eventuallythespacebarwontbeenough,

happy birthday wont be enough.

I know just a few flavors species of flowering plants,

but to know more would be pretentious, and the streaks of light are just as invasive as the movies they are reviewing,

and I know that,

I know that.

Like the plants and the streaks of light, and the biting movie reviews,

I am invasive, too.

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.