End of a saga

between the canyons,

echoing off the walls.

threatening to blow the lid off,

blow the whole thing up.

Its off, and so are you;

are we; are they.

Its the end of an era,

the first look back,

a glance inside,

between the laurels, where the horses gallop deftly in between seasons.

and leap, over my head, and yours,

out into winter.

out into that sweet, sweet wild

out into a different direction entirely ,

to where they aren’t any horses any more,

Out where there are just some good ideas, a few at least — roaming around.

Accompanied by a ringing numbness in your fingertips,

and everything itching all at once,

but not in a poison ivy kind of way

out to where there are no more horses/ and no more blocks,

and no more poison ivy,

but ill miss it none the less.

feels like I can see a cat

where there is not a cat, only slower.

Hasn’t been a cat in a long time,,,,

but the cramps are forming in the base of my legs, in my calf’s,

and they have been for a long time,

about half full, with my feet up up up.

, only slower.

Just slow,

So slow.

A reading , palms read; palms trees, / psalms

revelations ; an open book.

A paradigm.

Unsure if we are forcing it

or even starting it the right way to begin with. so

the end.

Skin from the lip on my tongue now, on the tip of my tongue,

on the verge,

we’ve only been focused on injuries lately.

Instead of being flawless, instead of using the word “and”

instead of just being ourselves.

Weaving our way through, capsizing on the way, by the way.

Only stopping to take a drink when the screen goes blank and all those eyes everywhere watch you try to dance,

You see your breath just as soon as you get up off your hands and knees,

crawling out from under it,

They watch you struggle to reset, struggle to rewind, struggle to really dance and to grow.

when they are all gone,,,

ctrl alt del,

circa,

et al,

etc. etc,

Running parallel to my veins,

cosmically, and coincidentally adjacent to that broken bone,

perpendicular to the room down the hall,

standing on the outside, from the outside.

the typography,; the topography

all of its a mess,

directionless and loose,

When I trip over the carpet trying to get there , right out of the gate.

to find out where that howling is coming from,

when we trip over the carpet just trying to get there,

to get somewhere,

to get anywhere,

to just get past the gate.

Still trying to figure out where that howling is coming from,

This lack of feeling before we plummet into that beige void,

a spirited campaign for a re-run if there ever was one,

one that brought us to tears,

if there ever was one.

A blank slate;;; a horizon

through my eyes, at my fingertips, we’ve come this far.

Cast our nets in the right direction and let the fish slip through our hands,

challenged like we’ve never been.

Despite the curiosity and how close we get, and the chain of custody,

and the sheer lack of command,

well have to open it up, and drown it out.

Burn it down,

to the foundation, to the roots; in one ear and out the other,,

up until liftoff.

While we have fish on the brain,

in all aspects, always.

To the heart of this sickness,

we are the osprey,

flying straight towards the stars,

empty handed, a quarter of the time.

Up and under,

indecipherable, but at the same time, warm on my throat.

My watch is probably fast,

was probably fast.

We don’t know what’s been said or misspelled,

but we still pass the dragons, we’re still taking chances;

but they are not dragons and they do not take chances.

Still warm on my throat,

all of it.

still written in the sand; made wholly for the big screen.

all of it.

Spread out, the cheers and the crops; the pesticides; the phalanx. the fall.

Nothing in common but stepping on the the same cracks and wearing the same stripes,

the same jackets,

soaking it all up just the same , the same .

despite the silence.

the same.

Turns out, the crawling was just a reflection ,

I thought it was always two people,

thought it had always been,

but it was only ever one,

Had been one crawling

running on. flooding. one.

The entire time.

The one that changes with me , follows me, floods ME

like a shadow,

like me,

the same,

The entire time.

, just shy of 1000.

When they breathe,

they the lights

in their incandescence.

They show their gills, typing running fast,

and breathing underwater.

The thief,

that thief,

guided by that same incandescence,

instead by candles,

incensed and numb,

numb, but still, a thief.

Still being picked up by far away microphones;

picking , and poking.

Still running , stumbling feet crunching over broken glass and

river rocks, arms are full Marcus. Arms are FULL.

No idea what’s louder, or what’s more poetic,

what more could be , make me?

make me. A THief.

Rarely is it loud enough,

Am I , positive or negative, BC or AD-

charged and letting the current hit me and run through me,

chasing after the boat that’s already left.

Ignoring everything else headed straight for me.

and I am left on the dock, fully charged, but aloof, too.

Set to drift anyways, but I was aiming for a different direction,

not for paradise necessarily, and it feels like the end,

set to a soundtrack of some kind, and that would explain the microphone,

set to a pit in my stomach; to the core;

my core.

my core.

set to a certain romance, but still fully charged , happening now in broad daylight,

in the cheap seats.

it usually follows at night,

follows me, sparkling,

BC or AD – in broad daylight.

my core.

my core.

my core.

In order to save the music

where we left off; mispronunciations abound,

on an island, dipping my feet into the water,

through those blue waves, all these months later.

When we were rabid and bruised,

when we were rabid and bruised, back in March.

Written in cursive, and I think we’ve been here before.

black and blue waves,

and left on the cutting room floor.

I think we’ve been here before, back in March.