A roaring thunder encases the land. It absconds with an easy settling and rattles beyond and above, the land grinds and creeks and splits. Brown earth breaking into cracks, fire jutting outward. A lava burst, fountains of molten rage coming through the earth. The land splitting and bending, everything(more) complacent destroyed. Oblivion gripping the world, snatching at people, places, things, beings.
A cosmic rumble stealing and stealing that which was and creating anew, beauty by way of chaos. Life conceived and breathed. Indignant rage seething into existence and the world, commonplace, rumbles on. (less)
Roll and roll and roll and when will it end.
This dice of a life. Unpredictable patterns and 1-6 scales of soon to be weight scales, of confusion and believers. When the urge grips, and chimes in with reverberating pangs of burning, burning, burning desire. You give in.
Yo(more)u roll those damn blind dice and hope. That faint hope. And, you, become. (less)
When since did Harold believe in quiet things and dismal curtain lifetimes of a mother who only ate celery and a father who was brave and dying.
Years, since he had touched either.
Years, since he had been anything but a hushed whisper, in broken nights. A son, since(more), gone.
Gone and gone and gone and not wanting to return. (less)
Jagged cracked earth underneath your feet. A child sprinted along these cracks, a lifetime spent among these black fissures. An earthquake spanning an entire generation - happy faces, sad embraces, a family forage festival, a first kiss, a dying wish, and cyclical spins the bottle cap.
Grinning teenagers wit(more)h their cheap containers of vodka and first time early cigarettes, maybe some marijuana.
Let's go on the merry go round, someone shouts.
Are you fucked? You respond. They laugh. We laughed.
Ah, yes, now I remember, says your lover.
We wink, we give you the push in the back you need, to forget and to plant forward. In those black fissures, the jagged cracks, there is life, sprouting life, life that you are apart of. Blossoming happiness and sadness, little daisies and children. Serious things can wait until they can wait little longer. We laugh. You smile. We, the black fissures. We, the lovers. We, together. (less)
Gifted ghosts, they tread. They wisp through and out of connectivity like seeking beings, tiny footsteps lost in large boots. A yelp. A grand sky above, golden plumes of clouds and, somewhere, there they are.
Gifted entities, searching. I search to touch them. To feel, let them inside of(more) my white skin.
Whoever they are, I will find them again, someplace.
Another life, I will jump off through the moon-bow crescent of a striking clock tower and, there, we shall encounter each other. They, intangible sheets of sky and, me, a slow heart. An incandescent man (less)
Don't blink because she'll be gone, believe me, I've done it. I'm drunk and I'm alive. That is something. It is the most incredible nothing. I stay my drunk fingers and, perchance, see myself in another live.
Tell them of what it was like.
(more) It's a good life. A beautiful life.
I'm frozen. I'm dead.
I'm drunk, the bitter sweet cocktail of the two.
We will see again.
We will see again.
We will feel again.
So is life, it's all there is.
I'll write for her.
Above all else, I'll write for me.
I am human, i know this, I remember it. I feel too much and too little.
It's a problem and I lost myself when i walked out of some slum with you in it. Vanilla being, well, dammit, it's great enough. I'll find myself. I promise. That other life, well, it waits. (less)
An ever present bystander, the long shadowed feeling which spurts over yonder, close and yonder.
He is you is a she.
You are a miasma, hemale shemale and stand uproarious and uncouth, timid and simpering.
You are you and, oft, you are too damn tired to think of such(more) things. (less)
We are, beasts, of the continuation of things. Dead and alive and a deadpan heart beat of the two. I slapped my face, hard and jagged, and Tamya rolled off the bed. Her large waste, catatonic delight, ruptured the solidarity of we.
"I've got to go, up early i(more)n the morning."
"Right." Her heavy lips sulked deep. "We're young, come on, have a little fun."
"I wish I could but I can't. Sorry."
"No, I mean it."
The door bolted shut. We was now I, but I was still apart of the largeness of both the room and the urbanity of civilization. I was apart of civilization and, thus, I am we. Even if I prefer to spend my nights alone. (less)
A politician jeers and prods and laughs. The room is filled and quiet and he speaks.
A crowded room of promises yet to be made true.
Why criticize fallibility. Do we not, also, make promises and delay and not keep and refute?
It is the nature of the beast(more) and by pandering and grovelling and debasing, maybe, too, in a crowded room, they can hope to be good.
The sun ripples golden plumes into the outside, streets and walkways. I look outside. No people, for they're all in here. In a crowded room, I long to be made alone. (less)
It's midnight, tick beats the metal hands, whining, of my grandfather clock, never owned by my grandfather. An old man with a tawny white beard, suspenders and wool socks. He didn't care much for time, so I remember.
(more) The encrusted dawn isn't too far off - a melange of orange beauty, soaring beyond and life eyes open.
It's time for me to sleep. I'll wake up when it's time.
Wake up when it's time, before or after. There never is so much precision as before and after. It's just bigger and, bigger, is always better.
Good night, I say, tomorrow I wake up. (less)
Tomato rot in the fridge.
Gleam, it does, when you look the other way. Odd, why does it not want to be eaten.
Is it alive?
Of course not. It's a tomato. An organic tomato, with dwarf sized seeds and ridges and canals and pools of liquid, juices o(more)f spurting life.
Raking mud and dirt, some other's hands, and ripped it from vine, the earth feels as you do. Does a tomato have a living heart. It can't.
Inverse being, it grows and dies, like you do but it cannot think and feel and touch, but can it be felt?
In touching, does it not touch back, ripe itself alongside you?
It's just a bloody tomato.
Tomato's are meant to be eaten.
That is all.
Besides, they're only half-tasty and you desire something sweet and cocoa and dead. So you'll avoid the tomato fetus bulb for now and go elsewhere, eat another.
Lazy tomato, go on back inside. (less)
I sit up. I jimmy a cigarette up to my lips, wet lips, and shoot up my lighter. The flame crackles, softly, and burns tightly into the tobacco.
This is all there is, for now. My life of smoke, up and down and directionless and anticipated. My life,(more) for now. All else must wait while I simmer up in the smoke of my tender wet lips. (less)
Like egregious secrets bypassing the waggling flesh and buried ledgers of things bygone. Celebratory dinners, muted, indistinguishable from yawning and solitude. This is our nucleus, ringed down from sockets of promises and leaking onto the floor of expectation. Our family of brokenness and togetherness and ambivalence. Ho(more)les, bullet or otherwise, and you say: "Why can't we all just get along."
Why? No one responds, "what does that even mean?" Change, your ethereal benefactors don't even know where to begin.
Humanness isn't defined by art, merely having the gravity expressed, of emotion, questioning, hoping and wanting.
Wanting, above all else, transcends a jovial sitting down at Thanksgiving, to carve steaming meat and heaving bread and to pass the mushy potatoes along in a clock work arrangement.
Desire, too, seems to stifle the piano playing, a little girl of ten, when all the eyes skitter by and wander to fastened seams of peoples movements. It isn't false, to want, to desire. There is no loss, no gain. Only triumph in seeking to be.
Familial piety is worth something, a whole lot of quality - beers and wines and delicate afterthoughts, crumbs in your lap, serve as ropes of hinder in place of feeling love.
We feel through innumerable spontaneous thinking, drum rolls on and on of what is the all of it all.
In front of you is sequestered everything, willing paths and windy avenues to put an end to all and all.
Your family remains and, whether or not you're going some place in particular, they sit at that table and wander. All you need do is wander with them and, together, you will find wonder. (less)
Core Mine Field, the sign reads. A divide of a town with only two sets of peoples. Those grizzled, construction-laced and black soot stricken miners and those others.
The others are folk, regular, who do regular things - they eat and work and play and love and don't lov(more)e and go on living and do all they can to avoid Core Mine Field.
The others are as much people as anywhere else in the nation.
Miners, grieve, and walk along the road to grieve harder underneath the bottle. They slag hard and toss their cash into gutters. Everyday, they know, might be their last. And they dive deep into the under earth, where their shadows are lost and blackness and coughs and dragging steps serve as landmarks.
Down in the matter there is only them, together, the outside world a far distant dream with songs of sweet and delight and relenting. The upper air is not their own and they toil into the hard bedrock and cleave inside of it, with grimy pickaxes and roaring, clatter-clatter machines. They will never see any of these stones when they reach the top and they will never own or hold or give the sapphire and gold and ruby and granite that they unearth. These things will go elsewhere to those who have never known the terror of the dark and deep and quantifiable sink.
Core Mine Field they deface and rip out its own core and they find anguish and peace inside of it. They attach themselves to it, for lack of any alternative. A core of cores of cores of solid rock and hard edged hammers and black hearts and digging and digging and digging and being all there is. (less)
I don't think of much these days. Ever since your twilight breathing left my earthly fleshy needing, your silly strokes and your whims. Those jaundiced walks, two skinny lovers in a city full of dazed smiles. Wandering about cracked streets. Sneaking feet meandering to the bottle-nosed seats of our(more) now changed minds. We ambled and, boy, did we have a time. A grand time.
Your eyes were mine.
You were mine.
I don't think much of you these days.
Lubricating the split-apart mind of tolling bells, here, and now. I saw you in the moonlight, on a grass courtyard, and we said our hellos.
To each their own, I said when you asked what I was and I told you. I knew no more than the smile which carried itself through the soft-spoken whispers of the gay night.
Tell your friends.
Tell them, of you and I.
Pathos absorbing itself into the same windows, transparent archways buried in the stain of our memories.
A beautiful stain. A cool stain.
There's no use smudging, you and I.
Appeals are as fleeting as you and I.
Love is as pointless as thinking about it, said I. Life is a silly thing, but not so absurd as to be anything else. And small hopes and dumb hopes and tragic silliness, nights spent wanting and days spent not wanting and lives spent as any one of these things.
What am I saying.
Love is clean life, easy going until it stops going and you're still left with life.
You were a clean life, lugging your own bright-eyed stains and, apart, we amble those same streets. We search for want of searching and we find without wanting to find. You and I, boy, what a grand time. (less)