sitting here

and thinking of how your mouth feels.

now.

an unfolding of the pages
deep as a ravens wing
you dyed your hair black
to match your heartstrings


curiously... i keep hearing a downpour of rain hitting the rafts above the living room ceiling, but when i turn to look out the window, i see nothing but gray skies and dry asphalt.
what happens when you project too much?
anticipate.
does it actually come true, or do you become victim to your own fears...
locking yourself in a room with one door wide open.

33°47'20" North, 118°4'47" West

We. Lived in(side) a safe neighborhood.
Hidden in(side) a brick wall, the housing tract removed itself from the outside world. Walls.

Each individual brick that was laid there one by one when the wall was being built agreed…
we are selective. and strong.
People who did not live there and drove by there knew they did not belong there. The bricks told them so.

The brick-wall and tract was built by a man named Mr. Ross W. Cortese. The streets were 40 feet wide to be exact.
The wider the streets, the richer the neighborhood.
Oh Beverly.
Oh Ross.

In the beginning, the housing tract accommodated mostly affluent middle-class working families. These families owned children. A dog. Sometimes a cat. And during the winter, in the late afternoon, hidden in(side) and behind the fences, the dogs would grow anxious with one another as they watched the air make the poisonous grey fluid climb down the thermometers that belonged to the houses. The children would go inside, the dogs would stay outside.
Knowing that the night and cold was approaching, they would call out to one another to satisfy their desperation.
Incessant barking fogged the twilight.

This was the sound of the neighborhood clearing its throat before turning out the lights and going to bed.
Crashing vowels that would echo in the cold, orange air.


Do you remember this sound?

what it feels like.

whiskey and smoke.
hard liquor knock-out.
a fumbling of words... thought-process gone.
hands laid out, fingers full of rings
of kings.

woke up on the floor.

I am so stoned.

SO. stoned.

Sunyata

What is this frozen ground below me? There are remnants of little green things here and there, sprouting up between cracks in the ice. Remnants. Not buds. So I should be careful to not say ‘sprouting’ because that implies newness. There is no rebirth here. This is death. This is now.
Over there in the courtyard there is a fire burning, sitting alone inside a ring of wood. But from out here I cant feel the heat. There is no heat here. This is bitter. This is now.
I could walk for miles on this blanket of ice. It’s hard to distinguish the horizon because the clouds and the snow converge seamlessly. A white blindness. I could walk for miles and miles, unaware if I’m on the ground, or in the sky. I could walk on clouds in this blindness if I wanted to.
And if I died out here alone in the whiteness, in the ice… no one would know. I would freeze into nothingness. I wouldn’t be. There is nothing here. This is empty. This is now.

what has been rearranged

No words for today.
I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing.
But tomorrow will be better.

this morning

Sometimes I wish you would slap me.
Scream at me.
Tell me I’m good for nothing.

You could kick me down.
Have me crying.
Tell me I’m just another waste of time.

To feel your hands on my face again
See your fears.
Tell me that I belong to you, and you, me.

lyrics for me.

Jealousy is the hand that holds your strings
Four limbs going up and down in motions
That you just cant shake.
Memory serves, you don’t pay the bill
And then forgetting once or twice
You never will.

Sometimes death is a fortune that we try to fake
You’re walking round and round in circles
Plowing your own grave.
To forfeit the debt, but then hesitate
Telling me there’s no good time
Just no escape.

I hear your voice, and you’re so curious
So goddamn curious, you try to fabricate
The makes, the breaks, the aches, misfortunes
Of what
we used to be.

Come on, skinny lover,
You could make good use of your time,
and your blind energy.
Like picking out the only dime
in a box of one hundred pennies.

Imagine the world, corrupt and paralyzed
Drunk as hell and throwing fists and curses
To a wall of lies.
This is not the sound of my heart break
I swallowed your last request
Oxygen came too late.

I hear your voice, and you’re so curious
So goddamn curious you try to fabricate
The makes, the breaks, the aches, and misfortunes
Of what
we want to be.

I hear your voice, and you’re so curious
So goddamn curious you try to fabricate
The makes, the breaks, the aches, and misfortunes
Of what
we want to be.
What we want to be.
What we used to be.