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

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.