Further away underwater now than I ever been;

shouting but unable to shout.

No title or source to site,

no input

and no out (put).

Just drifting.

Blinded by the fleeting streaks

and then devoured by hungry sharks, or

at

least ( actually)

circled by them.

The sharks.

Crime and punishment.

Head first.

Unsure if all that red is rubies o r the blood.

waiting for the frenzy,, for the trnalsation

,,,,,, just drifting

You chase and chase and realize you’ll never catch it,

can’t recreate it.

Definitely can’t devour it, and cant point at it.

CANT EVEN CREATE IT.

I’ve thought about this though a few commercial breaks ,

though sleep, through filing cabinets and sleepy tunnels.

It wont play the same way,

wont have the same repercussions,

wont have the same instructions,

It wont come back if it’s called, it wont make sense if it leaves you a voicemail.

The movements are muted, BUT

tentative and tangled,,,

INVENTIVE, AND

ORGANIC

THIS IS MY STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

-I WUZ HERE.

We saw right through it,

through the echoes and the dictations.

Throughout the title fight.

Whatever was left over to interpret, after that.

Whatever errands that you didn’t run.

Whatever was left on the bone, after that.

What was left of those glowing blue lights.

Thanks for the bones, all those bones ,

and those blue lights, tooo..

and all that connectivity…

Tying it all together, with muscle and sinew and fluorescence.

It wasn’t finished in a studio,

It wasn’t polished, or buried and it dint give anyone chills.

It wasn’t checked off on any checklist

it was not something that was hardly ever heavy, ever.

It was something more robotic

alphanumeric4l, 4lways.

It was tangible then,

but it couldn’t be at this time,

it had to finally be

carried away instead.

I’m not one for graphs,

titles, or capitulating.

I knew what I wanted.

These clouds are set up perfectly

Waiting for the light to turn green,

feckless, and blue while stopped,

they sure are.

they sure are

The title is usually the last to make an appearance,

ahead of the prelude

ahead of most antagonists.

He is,

I was

You are.

Your color stands out against the coral reef,

more so than any of the fish.

and were grasping at straws now, still talking about fish.

I hope you can follow along,

I hope you can sing,

Breathing through those straws,

Breathing like them.

On this flume

through this, abandoned temple.

coming and going. breathing and

sleeping and still

being still,,,,

coming and going,,,

still talking about fish.

Wind the turbine up.

Make a statement, leadoff walk; a famine.

With bent knees, pour in more gas, take a few more steps.

Write a sequel.

Knock a few more spiderwebs out of your way. Right through it,

into it, into excitement.

Right from the courtroom.

Right from the gallery;

an artists rendering, at the very least.

Step into it. Choke up. Choke more.

at the very least

Choke // Not a Haiku, by now.

Don’t waste it ,

all that energy, all that mess, all that I N F A R E D.

Run right along with all numbness throughout your body,

like a poison; you’ll never catch up.

You’ll take too many lllllllllllllosses.

You’ll never move faster than you did on that boat that one time,.

and now there’s something on your head,

a bounty, or a song.

Worth too much now , binding too tightly, PLEASE.

Still keeping the hair out of your eyes though, but breathing far too fast to stay out of your eyes itself, THOUGH

Slithering away only to find another boat, THOUGH.

To find a place to breathe more quietly, more rhythmically.

To find another head; another snare.

to find more words, frantically.

More bass;;

another play,

more rhythm please.

My jaw wont stop.

Wont stop moving, talking, trying to talk.

Grinding and shifting,

tectonically, making no perfect sense at all.

Wafting, waiting, to be the first at something, anything,

the first one anywhere, the first crack in the sky.

to go back in time again, and land again. on land. oh land,

again,

Only to land again,

on land again.

To be the first one to fall off the bridge again,

into the Neva,

To set sail again ; crestfallen, wanting more

Setting sail beneath careless crescent moons, again.

hung too goddamn low in the first place, again.

its what’s already there,

the venom at my feet.

It’s what’s wet, and swollen.

Its all of the the jackals , going after my swollen feet.

It’s the tests.

Its what slips out every day,

leaking out of me ,

forgetting me, and my swollen feet.

Forgetting all of it,

, still bleeding, but I:M still bleeding.

What do we get out of tonight?

What is left over?

It’s free, and loud , engraved and perfect.

It’s loud and slides without assistance,

Like an automatic door,

beads like it water,

‘and its amazing we’ve gotten this far,

its amazing we’ve gotten this far.

The customers don’t even trip over it,

they don’t even seem to mind;

but it will take your their finger with it,

and it will take your non sequiturs with it

if you let it

it will take your fingers with it’

your fingers will feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel it,

if you let it.