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.

 

 

I have the head of writer,

                                       but the thumbs of an ogre,

burning because the keyboards have never known them,

I don’t know them.

It is dark in the garage and only the light from the dryer when you leave the door open allows you to see anything,

                               maybe I can get to Narnia from here,

I can probably get to Narnia from here.

The grass and the floor here  feel different then they did last week,

when I knew this wasn’t permanent ,

when I knew it wasn’t this shade of green,

all the music and the wine and the scars are not permanent anymore.

                    We will find fuller moons,

and windy nights,  and other moving parts,

                 along with more square feet and more room for mistakes,

                                                   along with so many swords stuck in my very own back,

I must have put them there,

I forgot they were there.

It is not the worst thing that they are there,

                                                                   in my back.

 The trinkets on the shelves, and the binoculars  I left on the top of a mountain,

I guess the floor feels different here , and the grass feels about the  same.

This place always plays the same movies, and these same mountains move in the same ways,

The stage feels sturdy enough but I can hear the audience  breathing,

at least they are alive, even if they are a  familiar  shade of green.

It all feels like glass to me,

the mountains,

the audience,

and

the movies,

cold like glass under my feet.

be careful during your monologues,

                                    and watch your step during intermission on your way to the bathroom. 

Remember your seat number, because I sure wont.

I am present for   the conversations but do not participate and the   talk of the choir is always  more important then what I have to say  but I can tune it out most of the time, and just focus on the television,

just focus on the television and be a vessel,

I am the choir,  and a ghost///////

I have the head of a writer, and nothing is permanent,

and the television is getting louder now,

like someone knocking or tapping on the glass that is so cold to me,

tap              tap                tap                     tap 

The grass feels about the same on this side of town.

                                                                  but I am still so cold,  and  I am still  made of glass,

I    will  always be the audience,

I will always be a lion,

                               and  I  will always be this familiar  shade of green.

 

 

 

I can feel the headlights approaching too,

                        quickly, like in the books.

I can feel the heat on the back of my neck,

from the sun and from the headlights,

I am as sure of the headlights just as I am sure of the voices that echo throughout the caves,

singing voices,

raspy voices,

voices buried so deep inside,

under glacial  craters and  smoldering funeral pyres,

buried within the  blowing meadows and cowlicks of your hair,

your beautiful hair,

The voices buried so deep you cant barely make out the  original motives,

ulterior or otherwise…

Everyone is pointing at everyone,

even the voices on the radio,

especially  the voices on the radio,

Coming up to the surface now,

like a bubbling muck,

or an emerging tick,

like mountains not yet born,

not  far from where the fireworks are,

not far at all.

And in these moments,

and in these cages, 

and when I am caught in thunderstorms,

I have to slow down.

Catch my tongue   and my breath and my mind too,

collect them in a net with other  tadpoles  and tidbits and let them free in water that is not their own.

                                               I take on more water like a sinking ship,

so that I will melt away quicker.

The rain may wash me away but I’ll be better for it.

I will explode like the sunrise,

and like those far away fireworks.

I will roll out like a red carpet, for  only you to walk on,

walk all over me, so that  your feet don’t touch the ground.

I will be laid out for eons,

and the stars will be over me and the dust will collect on me,

and when I roll over to get more comfortable,

I will become a precursor to myself, until a I roll over again in my sleep.

                           walk all over me,

so that I know you are with me.

That final book of matches, purchased so long ago,

still light when struck,

But now we are on our final book of matches, and they still strike if we try

if we wish hard enough,

 but the matches are running out,

and we are running out of uses for the remaining  matches,  and we are running out of time, and out of  the matches themselves.

I cant stand to see the candles around the house not lit,

                                      I cant stand to see the cupboard empty,

I cant stand to see you empty

                                           I cant stand to see all these lights going out at once,

We only have so many matches left,

please leave the light on, there are only so many matches left.

please water the plants,  they are dying too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can sit up now,

you have landed,

                                                                       in someone else’s  arms or in a net I am not sure,

and now you can feel the rattle of your bones.

             You were a human cannonball,

full of gunpower and shrapnel,

We all waited with our ears covered,

                                                                             and all you gave us was a  small splash,

and virtually no reason to clap.

You didn’t stick the landing, but you still had something we didn’t,

no one did,,,

your bones.

your bones

your bones

Read over the bones, and feel better now that you know what’s in them,

Rip out pages and diagrams of them and stick them on your walls,

know them like your know your favorite sports drink,

or  the layout of your favorite buffet.

Study them under a microscope,

                    and name them after yourself.

                                                                                                       your foot was here first,

your flag was here first,

you found them first and they are your bones.

When you sleep they are still your bones.

When you were  young and were fired out of that cannon they were still your bones,

even when they break into a million cosmic pieces,

and are swept under the rug,

              they  are after all,

still your bones.

still your bones.

still your bones.

                                                                                your foot was still here first,

your flag was still  here first…

 

And to be carried away like that,

                                                                     first thing in the morning,

is really something.

 On the wings of angels, or in the grasp of talons,

                                               without first having checked the local weather,

without first brushing your teeth so hard your gums began to bleed,

just so you didn’t have to floss, 

just so you could lie to the dentist and tell them that  you do floss.

Without first having stuck your toe in the water,

Without first checking to see if it was quicksand or regular sand.

The waiter hasn’t even stopped by your table yet, you haven’t even seen a menu,

and you never will,

 

 

not at this height.

to be carried away, in such a way,

                                                   is flightless,

                                                 is fruitless…

                     Hold on to your treasure, tightly.

Secure it and put it on trial, litigate for and against your treasure,

                    Bind it’s legs and arms,

It will fight like a champion, but you’ll secure it.

And you can try and carry it back to your colony,

back to the church service and everyone is waiting for a baptism and everyone is dressed in pinks and greens and yellows.

Roll the stone away, you will need to wait your turn.

Roll the stone away and be careful not to get any dirt on your pants.

Don’t ask me or any of the watching animals with flashlight eyes to help.

Our faces will tell you all you need to know;

Our hands are tied and we are busy learning about what makes up a waterfall.

There are instruction manuals for that kind of thing,

you should know, you wrote  most of them.

                     The clock is ticking slower now, it must be running out of batteries,

Don’t worry I left some in the nightstand I think,

they may or may not be dead,,,,,

you may or may not be dead,,,,

Leave them in the nightstand,

trap the lighting and the thunder in there too, if you can.

                                  The clock is  practically saying nothing now,

Next to boisterous  masks and other important pictures  that never got their place in the sun,

although they had some pretty great speaking parts,

I loved that one where everyone was over weekend drinking wine and laughing

 and laughing

 and laughing.

Your treasure is what is important here,

Your soft treasure feels like a heart, and it’s beating rapidly

Sink your teeth into it, like a vampire,

(like a parasite)

and leave it behind,

(unlike a parasite)

                        but after you do you must get out of sight,

hideaway for the night,

hideaway from the night.

Morning will break and you’ll be better for it.

Stretch your arms out across the universe and remember your treasure,

remember where you left it to die.

                        It will still be there, like the rest of  them,

the rest of everything, the treasures and the tombstones and the autographs, and the car wash tokens, the laundry all over the floor.

It is especially hard to differentiate the quarters from all the car wash tokens.

They all end up in the same place anyways,

plastered in newspapers and written in the sky and under vending machines,

                             take it with you over the hills,

in broad daylight let them see you carrying your treasure with long legs like springs and the sun breaking on your back,

they will know you are the champion.

They will see you sidestepping landmines and broken lightbulbs to get to the coast,

to get to the edge and peek over, throw a stone down there and see if you hear it drop.

You have made it to the high dive,

and you wont even hesitate,

even with everyone watching,

                    and  you’ll break into a swim,

leaving the cities behind,

leaving the fanfare behind,

leaving a trail of blood behind.

It is here you’ll become young again, spraying water from your mouth like a dolphin,

spray it into the face of your treasure and it will open its eyes,

if only slightly and know that it is safe.

Talk to your treasure as you float on your back,

talk to your treasure as you begin to sink,

                                                           you  are sinking because of your treasure,

the label didn’t say anything about  that though,

and there were plenty of spelling errors, too.

But you knew how heavy that treasure was,

your back is sore from it, and the water in which you sink  lets you forget that,

as you descend,  slowly like a jellyfish,

                                        slower then your used to,

You are leaving your spine and your halo and your wings behind,

                             your luggage too,

and the airbags never  even deployed.

Your treasure is already out of sight, probably resting  somewhere at the bottom,

waiting for you, with it’s elbows on the table,

waiting for you to blow out the candles,

                                         waiting for a head on collision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am no longer seventy percent water,

                               The oceans no longer run through me,

I am no longer a chess piece lost in the sand,

                    and I am perfect in the sun,

                                                                   in the sun I am perfect

and barefoot and can feel all my bones, too.

I can feel the wind and you should, too.

I can hear that clicking sound,

It could be an airplane, or fingers clicking tirelessly on a keyboard,

I know where words come from and I watch them walk into caves with their heads down,

I don’t know what that sound is, and I wont pretend to either.

I’ll hear it and catch it and I will watch it intently in the confines of a jar,

                                       Let it grow or die before my eyes,

before I lose interest in something as trivial as a phonebooth with no phone attached.

                       This obsession with ghosts wont get you very far,

stand idle and grow with the weeds!

 Be apart of the concrete, or the quicksand or the mountain.

Your surrounded by a fortress built by someone else, for someone else,

                             someone who was here before you were here.

Stand in the middle of all of it,

and hear the plates crash on the kitchen floor, someone will have to sweep it up,

but it wont be you,

it wont be you.

Standing in the middle of eternity with your arms out,

under a lush canopy of stars and gravity and other space junk.

Petting sleeping dogs, and watching fountains erupt like volcanoes.

You can try to hide upstairs,  but those heights aren’t  yours, either.

 And those heavens aren’t yours either,

                                                         What’s in the cupboard, isn’t your either.

You’ll lose your breath, but you’ll get it back.

I’ll give it back to you.

                        your heirlooms too, but for now they are locked away..

Here is some water so you can be fluid again,

but only so I can see my  own reflection in you.

You are my mirror, and  now I can see everything that goes on behind me.

                This is for the houses built next to the highways,

It is for you too, I didn’t forget.

and for  the sleeping dragons also,

and  for the fountains that erupt like volcanoes.

May  you  all get some sleep  among the passing cars and circling buzzards,

may you all find a way to climb up  and over those walls,,,,,