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if you stare out the window, any window, and let the focus drift from your eyes, there are only colors, shades, and shapes blending, competing, perfecting. nights ago i found the 3:30-4 am terror that accompanies such a hollow half-hour, and nearby mornings i'm waking up with drunken butterflies in my stomach. from wasted eves prior or uncertain days to come, in those starkest moments, there is only the wooden table and a heavy feeling encouraged by the mind, so proud of itself for handling the futility, rolling misery along the tops of it's fingers like that trick with the half-dollar. it begins on skin, sinks into space, rises, shows it's face, heads, tails, falls along the wrinkly bumps travelling to the end, only to begin again. and that's a skillful act to pass the time, but it's neglecting the colors and fuck sight, i'm not talking about sight anymore, the colors and shades and shapes in our blood all ebbing and flowing like the union of two cells or rivers of invisible waves pouring crushing along existence like an eternal flood over a once dry creek bed.

the universe constellates steampunk art in abstract hingeless particle based formations of unison out there in the black

its friday and pink and the neighborhood dogs yell, children talk, parents scream, skateboards crack and land and scuttle. there was a moment when i likened falling in love to chasing the dragon, then i encountered someone who slammed my expectations and smashed my ceiling and revealed the sky, sun, stars, moon, and there are clusters of other cosmic shit beyond our eyes that make our souls feel even more at home, i know it because i feel strong bunches of it intertwined with this girl, woman, i love.

imagine me blue

there was a day at a lake. i walked out on the dock, put my toes at the edge. and realized. if i jumped in and went for a swim, i'd never touch land again.

there was a line that i cut to the front. cuz i realized. if i didn't cut that line, i'd never go anywhere at all.

there was a vault. with the most complex combination i've ever seen. and i was a master thief. so i set down all my tools and went to work. first there were sparks. next the sound of metal on metal. then there were human moans! during i heard the futile weather report. which had no bearing on the clouds above my head. AND CLICK

I walked inside. and sure enough. there was something beautiful to hide. everything beautiful, is on the inside.

find you awake

nights ago, delirious, everything flashed in psychic trials of truth. i kept the window open for the cool air on my sheets, like my father, if only i could've been collected like him. there instead, a vacuum of hopelessness, sometimes the carrot rots and everything a human being is working toward disappears. sometimes purpose is relative to courage and belief in an elusive unknown. sometimes while things are shifting, the best job is to endure. trusting time, the most uncertain element, also salvation. i write this on the floor. humbled and beginning, returned, like claws on a jungle cat.

when the robots default

because they're making em smaller than mosquitoes. dancing on raindrops, they dance on raindrops. i give you the news story, you translate it into poetic motion. i think we do that like those two kids in the movie.

charlie kaufman

"but more importantly if you’re honest about who you are you’ll help that person be less lonely in their world because that person will recognise him or herself in you and that will give them hope."

typing

life, the one you know. it doesn't return. and so the unrecognizable can be scary for awhile. there embedded in circumstances, people, these precious precious sand dripping do something with yourself modes of existence, are the same insecurities, superficial wounds, skin, sensitive skin and chemical hopes of fill in the blank transcendent chunk, active chunk. standing on kingdoms of plastic, eyes in glare, relief at the bottoms of tumblers small, tumblers large, tumbling down hills like rolling stones for three day weekends or mandated grace periods, returning the same and changed.

a black kid's hands sliding along the neck of his left-handed guitar at an open-mic night. a mother limping down the sidewalk, eyes wrinkled in laughter because she can't help it, because it's funny. it's funny talking shit to your best friend on the phone in fragments of unspeakable drivel and dementia because somewhere along the way you both understood that there'd be no need for the middle part. and you clamor, silently or by open mouthed design, clamor, the pots and pans bang loud banging loud for someone to wake up in the middle of the night and understand the urges that tear at your insides for escape in form however abstract.

two strangers meet, say hello, fall in love, say goodbye, become strangers again. and all the wonders they made together, glow for all to see, twinkle in nursery rhymes, spin earth, spin, please keep spinning for the rest of us, we're not finished, we don't know why but we're not finished. i can use my hands, never mind complacency, lack of dramatic motion, my hands will tell you the truth, they'll press and grip and pray in reverence to the physical world, slip through the curtain, grant access to that electric field, it's terrible god, the velocity and strength of the indifferent current, interconnected golden spiderweb lightning singular energy ever-surging invisibly composing and vigorously regulating our existence, it's terrible and i'll channel it with my hands and construct something in dazzling likeness and express compassion and bring eyes to a close, opening them again.

you said the silence was louder tonight. i grabbed you close to me, kissed your mouth with the hunger of wanting to live, kept kissing you, everywhere, until you shook those series of shakes which communicate two souls and light up our brains. and kept kissing you. the victory over death is expressed by shared lips, perpetuates itself through inexplicably connected understanding hearts, shared by touch, texture, gratitude, in this physical realm, trusting in the magnetism that brings two people incredibly close despite themselves, knowledge, concern, trust in the undeniable evidence of wanting you, wanting to be together. creating something intensely moving in presence. painting, sleeping, waking, together. i want to write you a fireworks show, let it dream like the smokey aftermath, then reveal the night sky as a magician pulling the table cloth in one flurry to the amazement and wonderful arrangement of what's already there and eternally will be there, change black pocket of the universe and bring new suns, murder stars, entangle constellations, the universe will sort itself out in one great act of love. i know this to be true.