Headlights Burnt Out on this Long Ride.

Now is where the world seems to sit under the calendar's thumb where the passengers feels as though they are floating through space with no foot near the wheel. The drier sits cross-legged behind the steering wheel. Let's see where we land when September rears it's ugly head. The trees refuse to fall in line. Autumn comes early to one part of town as the leaves shrivel and crumble. The rakes and leaf blowers get called in during the off season and are buried under piles of forests. I watch the eternal struggle wishing I could draw this moment, when man loses to nature because no matter what I say the picture would do the job so much easier. Let us chop down those rebellious trees and use them for newspapers tomorrow telling the ironic tale of nature's dominance. 

Lunch Break Prison

In this prison of self on a steady diet of bread and water, it's all I want, or all I deserve. Self destruction is now the wave of the future. The stomach is silenced. If it had motivation it would be a hunger strike. Because it makes no sense there is no way to stop this idea. The guards don't beg, the guards don't care. I'm an old hand at this all. I'm used to the stares. I'm used to the shallow eyes staring back through the broken mirror. My shadow fades away despite the sunrises. So until I escape just keep the bread coming and the water flowing. it's the only reality I remember. 

Untitled July

Sweat drips down the seat in the sweltering summer sun. It's left front your bare back laying on the hot leather. I dare not wipe it. It's all that's left of the moments we shared together. When all that's left is the sweat, the remains mean little now. The sweat evaporates out and floats away like jigsawed memories. And I say bring on the sweet summer rain. Wash me. Make me whole again. 

#2
So if you think this all makes sense I would say you are crazier than I. Which makes sense I suppose. Sometimes words themselves seem to call out and other times I can search and search for a word that doesn't exist. So forever I'll hunt for what no longer (or never) exists. So as the minutes tick by I'll keep eyes and ears open, patient for it all make sense, patient for you to find me. The words, the answers.

Musical Daydream

Cymbal sings backward and the days fly by falling through a hole in the calendar marked with days gone by and forgotten hours collapsing through my brain. And this is the most sane dream I've had today. The space swirls through me and into you as the stars burst through eyelids and the cosmos melt your skin. And as the spaceships collide inside your large intestines ask yourself this: was it all worth it? Do these memories surprise you? Are these memories manifestations or the other way around? Can you un-curse yourself and float in a sea of glistening shimmering glimmering crystal clear?

I know what the words mean not in this order. Maybe that is the definition of freedom.