It’s not so secret,

its all in my ears,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

abstractly, but just as it always was.

I am beholden to those colonies of ants

and all that selfish forgetfulness ,,

Oh the slander we’ve endured!

That ripe fruit drips right down my face,

freezing some of my sweet teeth as I bite down

as I sweet dream,

the fall of Troy,

a million miles away.

All that white sand at my feet,

under my feet,

under everything,

over and over and over and over,

all over everything.

and I’ll still forget how strange it feels , always.

It’s like velvet when we cut away at those roots, anyways.

at least keep it short; sometimes.

You’re due for one, you’re due for something/

You cant brag about it

you’ll just need to leave it outside

so the smell wears off, so the wind can catch it.

So the world can hear it.

This was never a question of invincibility;

This was never a question of watching anything,

but here are dogs everywhere i look,

but still nothing on TV.

I’ll just stumble through the same biographies.

back to the ling drives

back to the long lines.

Notating all the billboards, and various avenues.

So that we can eventually navigate the rivers and floods,

and finally we hit a groove,

a nerve,

finally, a peninsula.

No more notifications

you’ll find out and we’ll fall on that sword together,

with whoever is following along .

When we miss keys, and notes and anniversaries and we think we can fly but we shouldn’t .

We lay bare and it is a chore,

make no mistake.

and that original thought was what you should have gone with,

but its gone now.

Your not the Fisher king ,

and I am not the Fisher King, either.

The Fisher King woudve caught it ,

Ran with it.

Scored with it.

Pull power from somewhere else. I’m exhausted.

Capitalize something else, please.

All this talk of power line and derivatives is making me thirsty,

It’s still not loud enough ( but that’s been said before)

it’s as if I’m following along in slow motion,

left to my own devices,

and I’ll always forget how that feels,

just how smooth those devices a r e.

I’ll always forget how g o o d

s l o w m o t i o n feels.

I’m no cowboy,

but there’s so much to unpack and there always will be.

Parades and stamps on postcards and you want to so badly to be both,

to lick both

to be apart of both.

A tremendous amount of blood both and

a skyscraper and

prefect perfect outlines of skylights when you close your eyes

you get nothing from it,

from looking no one in their eyes,,,

from reading various biographies,

form from the very reservoirs repertoires we’ve poured through,

drowned in,

The ones we’ve instead taken the time to re-arrange,

and drown drown in.

I didn’t use it all up this time, for once.

I have more in the tank, right now but just no title.

for fucks sake, and still no title,

but take notice,

I only used a few words last time,

I’ll only use a few more BTU’s this time around

since its mostly underlying anyways.

Since we don’t even have a title,

or even a flood,,, yet,

anyways.

Just a flick of the wrist isn’t all what it is cut out to be,

whenever we want.

we add more.

Out of the corner of your eye, out of the blue;

tucked away in the hallway, readily available IN FINE PRINT

It just all had to come out eventually, or it would have been worse.

It could have been worse; it could have just been transparent

It could have been unconfident, with every line underlined

coming out the back //

well after you wiped your feet,

Tossing and turning.

but not after the flashflood, the flesh and blood.

Tossing and turning.

So as to not be insensitive,

so as to not step out of the shadows,

or come out on top.

Now that we have it.

A cool breeze, and your attention, too.

and the wind as well , please.

More ammunition , and better lighting, please.

Always following along with

those cracks in the ceiling;;

Something spatial,,

something spectral,,

| This isn’t the place. | It’s further away than that. |

we just need better lighting, please.

under my gills; between my ribs,

and ultimately exhausted.

The one hit wonders, not scared to sing

.

But I was.

Here I was.

Hit particularly hard now

the nuts and bolts, and a ton of bricks with it.

The lightning and the hunger pangs and the debt, all at once.

Its all sand and electricity and the ability to not pay anything back, plus 1000 volts.

Just shy of the shoreline,

A jury of our peers.

Save for the glass we were about to fall through, and the nuts and bolts we were about to

stumble over ,

run through,

carry home.

Carried by a weaker wind,

feeling what we feel right now,

with or without our bare feet or or anything else.

unarmed, unbent .

We’ve seen all the best catches,

we’ve felt the wind the winds at our back.

This isn’t a song; it never was.

nothing will have been remastered ,

it wont have to be,

if you’ll just trust me.

If I’ll trust myself and my finger’s

but not my footprints.

They have already wandered to a different window, a different plane.

A different pasture

A different valley, with those very same feet.

That very same spacing.

that very same contest.

uncanny, and piecing . captivating. spellbinding.

Drowning in the aquifer now, slipping through the crevices ( crevici?)

but its cold and lucid , and it still was back then, too.

on that picnic bench, beach.

after that drive, It always was.

It still was back then , too.

Its been 11:43 for forever now.

the way it was written out.

eleven forty three , all stretched out.

Doesn’t do it justice. dragged out just to say we did it // and it was done//

It’s own radio station or signal , some static somewhere; relegated to a holler

It requires a repentant sequel; a crucible.

A whisper;

and its been written about at least thrice since , but

not here

not here

not here