island universes

You know how
some days feel awful
and it’s not the day itself to blame
it comes to the smells, and sounds,
and you feel like you woke up
on a day you’ve experienced previously,
one where you know everything
that’s waiting to happen,
and you just wait for the sidewalk
to fall out from under you
all over again

Slightly fallen from grace, and now, Baudelaire, Keats, Yeats, and Neruda, on their respective ways.

A Song

Bad dreams draw out on the wall
Right next to the picture of her down the hall
Yeah, the white coat does make a very nice touch
I don’t know why she hated photos so much
And now the paw cries ten
On a day in the ground again

I fear one day that I’m gonna have to sit
while a sawbones jaw trying to jump my ship
is going to tell me what time
I should dig my hole
right where it should be
and how deep it should go
I don’t want to know
I don’t want to know
I don’t want home

The groves led me out into space
Said, “We like what you’ve done with the place.
So, instead of fading into the ground,
We’re going to stay up here and show you around,
Until you see well enough
to finally open up your eyes.”

I hope one day that I dream enough to drift
to where the books don’t look cause they don’t know it
Now I’ve got all the time
to be filling up my cup
But why should I care
Cause what in the world is a cup
I don’t recall
I can’t recall

And on a whim
the light goes dim
before I’ve said my p(i)e(a)ce
with Him;
If He be She
or spectre grim,
I’ll read the stars to you


Spite. Fucking every last bit of it. The desire to disprove every expectation and lasting memory any shadow of a fuck can recall. Outlived, and telescopic imprint of half-tried. Settled and displaced, hole-fingered dam in the ugly void and you’re all fucking complacent. Scrambling at patched pleasantries, died and awoke, choking and reborn in the wake of a cheapened state. Your diluted failures. Half-awake. Half-relieved. Half-dead. Completely affected.

That was close. I’m just glad I’m not a fuck.

A New World

I’m not looking, not waiting for some grand epiphany, because I’m already in the mire. The change. A focus. A feeling. A gradual shift in chemistry; a minute adjustment in disposition that gives life to a new universe. I exhale the stars, glowing galaxies dancing into order to speak out a quiet truth:

There’s something in the constellations screaming your silhouette; a chest beats orchestra sealed into the sky that cannot be suppressed by the millions of upward gazing eyes, trying to rationalize and to compartmentalize your ubiquity.