As if I had a choice,

as if there was any kind of chancellor,

any amount light from the chandelierz.

Softened with chamomile.

camouflaged with charisma,

scrambling any kind of chromosomes along with the fighter jets, and

AIR FORCE ONE.

I wanted to be sorry,

to be hunted,

to be humiliated

to be human ;

to be christened,

I am not sure why I am up

and pacing.

Crumbling, along with the rest of the cinderblocks.

Disengaging, whenever they decide to bite,

It bites,

and they decide to bite back.

It haunts,

they will,

and in short…

now we are bitten,

now we are accountable;;;;;;;

Eyes even with the blades of grass,

but not on your back anymore.

You are forced to stare back,

so that you can finally match their eyes.

The eyes of the lions.

The eyes of the tigers,

The eyes of all the spectators.

So that were parallel with them.

trying to defeating them

while still practicing with them.

Putting to bed all that chemistry,

that doubt;

all those rituals.

Deleting only a fraction of it

only some of what we wrote,

only some of what we thought.

We were still bolstered in that moment ,

but still obliterated with plenty of time left

All that buildup,

the precipice,

quivering ,

the foreplay; the horseplay.

It burns its way in,

kicks in the parlor doors,

and doesn’t ask about any of those readily available ghosts

or about anything that could very well be documented;

not about any alibies or rabid dogs,

If that’s what they were really here for, in the first place

Bearing down on my eyelids, in the first place

if that’s what they really want,

Nervously scratching at my own stomach,

but it’s sweet,

My fingernails are barely legible in that crisp bathroom light,

under duress

and then

grabbing at my neck,

with whatever is left,

in the morning sun, the very next second,,,,,

with whatever is left.

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.