The tremors,

the daunting task of staring over,

to rewind, again.

Everything in serendipity, all at once.

It all comes crashing in, happening all the time,

Without complex words and fanfare

and paragraph after

paragraph after

paragraph after

paragraph

all on an empty stomach.

The PO Boxes, the addresses,

                      and paragraph after paragraph.

Who I perceive; who may not be,. (who I probably even guess right after double checking )

All on a empty feeling,

Nothing is a certainty.

        I just said as much,

The folds have been more crisp, the seams more real,

I just said as much.

cataclysm after cataclysm.

…..if you’ve followed us this far///

its almost never enough,

the view or the feeling or the laugher,

sometimes // this time /// it just might be enough.

When it all feels inevitable,

when no mistakes are made ; when it feels clean coming off the bat, I feel that.

Were just gliding over it, singing it //                    feeling that

Despite the fact our feet are soaked, digging into the clay, pouring over every line.

Responsible enough to light that candle in the first place, to not put it further along in the margins.

to misspace it, to not let it be a poem of its own.

                                   Feeling that.

Responsible enough at least to ignore the search bar, and the canals.

     to not let it become a poem of its own.

Despite the fact that not enough people emphasize emphasis with ALL CAPS

that I have seen at least,

I , the masochist.

I haven’t even curled my toes yet,

I, the Masochist.

When it all comes pouring out and the pain runs down your arm and into your bed, too.

Into yours dreams, with me,

IN me.

Sometimes it doesn’t,

sometimes it wont,

sometimes its an infestation,

      IN me.

It isn’t just one line, or stanza or verse,

it’s the whole vehicle ; the entire collision.

Sometimes, it isn’t . Its the song we wanted to hear, needed to hear,

the lowest common denominator.

A cry for help,

no encryptions, a crop circle; a familiar smell.

       A mile away.

IN me,

IT is me.

No hieroglyphics , IN me ; IT is me.

A shakedown

or maybe its not…. or wasn’t.

The song ends in a loop,

and I am thrown for one, for once.

All around.

Everywhere.

On repeat, but cleaning it up as we go ,

just so casual, through it all, breast stroke, backstroke, you name it.

We cut through the water,

Through the rain.

Trying to peer over the trees when we are on land, even through them would be fine.

trying to crane my neck around the totems and the doves,

We are in tempest and everything moves the same direction, including me and those doves

the totems too.

are those footsteps?

all those syllables…

no… those are drums.

all those syllables…

the totems too.

We didn’t hear that from the oracle.

We didn’t hear any of that from you.

We were on mute the whole time, anyways.

Chains hanging loosely,

dragging from behind, like dangling constellations.

Carving up the already paved pavement,

at high speeds, sparks catch everyone’s eyes,

including mine

all at once.

Choking what was , what is,

all at once.

Listless, but my voice was louder than I remember,

a triumphant soundtrack ,

because we want the heat;

because we want the best;

just a scary way to say it all ends in a tie.

Stalling out, giving into the metal and the taste of it ,

giving up to it, the acidity.

Missing out, and it all just started.

Were already looking ahead,

were already punctuated.

Thousands of miles ahead, at best.

Calling out and then forgetting about it, at best.

we cant do that but

I ‘m still beaming ,

I’m still blinking, at best.

We are doing it more often now,

We are missing it more often now, ( I do)

maybe we should, on purpose.

Maybe we can do it without looking now, ( I do)

maybe we are right where we wanna be, ( I am )

maybe we can compromise,

compromise on missing it,

on purpose.

Letting it all come to me

all at once

or learning the patterns of short currents,

the habits of short whispers,

It will still get here, still come in clearly, across the board.

still bounce off the backboard if we let it.

We know the voice, can picture them too.

We can still decipher it, hear it better than anyone else. always.

but where we left our sunglasses ,

when we waited for the pause, better than anyone. always

We are not so sure.

We push ourselves,

but we are not so sure, of anything.

Roll up your sleeves, because of nothing,

in spite of nothing,

drag and drop, always.

Taking chances, now.

Nothing is tumbling; these tactics are obvious.

Nothing is tumbling now,

but then everything is always

but the room is definitely smaller, with pleasure.

Everything will get some water,

a stream, an email, with a fresh new approach.

With nothing else to go off of, starting off fresh, or

with nothing, eventually.

with civility, eventually.

Don’t be so bleak.

Fill up your ears with it and the groundwater from the aquifers and the aqueducts,

the rest of the noise will do the rest,

the river will run through it , finally.

in a trance, certainly.

Patch it together from so many other songs and some of those noises,

obscure it in oil and vitamins, whatever is left, cordially.

and flesh and dry eyes, and mispronunciations ,

with dry eyes,

we pan towards the execution, exactly.

Make it feel obscure, and the camera and your feet will shake,

make it feel really feel obscure.

when nothing shakes, clearly.

Back towards the light,

a skill borrowed and bled ,

with spaces and waves in between, to fill-in the gaps, like hydraulic cement.

Hydraulic me, coming and going, bricks and other pieces falling away from me ,

like hot asphalt being poured , and then cured.

like vining plants climbing and erasing the fence, and suddenly were cured.

Throwing it all at the walls to see what sticks, fighting to climb those same walls all the time.

what with all the vines and shit you’ve thrown at it, preventing you from getting a good grip, but not preventing sentences from being too long,

having too many thoughts, going off script, etc. etc.

We are not sure where to go , which song to play next, where to put your ( our?) hands,

how to deal with this headache. or where you left your gloves.

Which hand we should run through our hair,

because it matters, and well always chase it,

feel it,

get lost in it, ( our hair, the hair)

what matters… ( if your still reading)

what matters.

A ringing in the ears , in the trees,

and that still light from

the still tree,

still I feel it ,

the screaming and the burning

Still, we are.

Still we try to be .

Clinging to everything , to the stop signs and the ones indicating speed,

trying to find the cupholder with the cup,

at the very last second,

Everything spilling everywhere , as a result .

Real live cobwebs, spindly and dedicated; clinging to everything and everywhere

all over your lap now , spiders and silk and everything in that cup spilled everywhere.

This is the last time I’ll mention spiders for awhile.

Beholden to cataclysms , waning now / a split decision to come / a toast.

to me // and to that drop in pressure. ( cheers)

and to the spillage! ( cheers)

Deprived and deserted I am , by that precise drop in pressure.

Really precise in pressure,

Really precious drops in pressure,

really precious ones, man.