where to start, within blankness; steady face watching me across wayward streets of woven plains; darkness and half-light, half-shadows and still: a blank page, caught.
it was taken within, kindness and whispers, blood and fixtures, all washing senseless and on overload.
where are we moved to, thusly.
with complete inertia the walking began. rose steep on hidden things, masked angles of themes. things finishing and starting all around, things moving, and we spoke. we spoke, and still, nothing mattered as much as the atmosphere.
and then erased everything within the endless poetry of now.
became pornographic intent, offspring of our worst. washed ashore and dried, like waste let loose, then dissolved, then what should be life turned dead, vanquished our best and:
a tree builds itself better. a mountain breathes and
your world. our world. my world. come back to the hunting ground, and
end your weapons, there, by the glow of fires.
everyone has left my street; there are
no cars outside, and lights shine on a well of
nothing. i am used to being abandoned but
still having life roaming around my boundaries. cold and rain, and
earlier hailstones, all shut all. and off is tonight’s color.
and in loneliness, a wilderness together, a sharp object
we make every day. at streetlights, graffiti hearts glowing with stains; still,
hearts rise and sing, even in these troubled wanderings.
there is hope in the less noticeable things.
behind volume, hidden behind semantics, rights, wrongs and accusations.
i wake, look out the basement window and hold the earth; it’s beautiful, i go outside,
walk around the block, and cars have returned and are doing their best to hit me and i say what the
fuck: it’s all beautiful, this sky we are; the rotten dirt we are; an endless map of broken. we are. this
endless falling. i look at the world thru clear
eyes. this is fuck, this, right here.
a blank slate, glow of a new fire, light on a new page. i walk away for a bit and it feels so good, so fucking
dead and reborn, all the time. and good.