Plans

I dream of the future like a planned oblivion from the couch, where I curl into punctuated forms wishing I was an anomaly. My body floated off an hour ago but we didn’t say goodbye, now I’m left contending with shapeless decades swirling, slipping, bending--balled up in the blankets for all the things I’ve seen. Unplanned and unforgetting, each time unbeknownst to me--thinking in the future, most days it’s all I see. I get anxious and depressed so I’m living the next ten years for the person I was ten years ago, and I might not even like those guys. Time is linear in a way I never agreed to, but the lighting in here is pale enough to convince me otherwise and I guess that will have to be enough tonight.

Rhythm

I’m a boulder baby
and I’m rocking
rolling home

I’m a gamble baby
tired, down and out
too fast to catch up
too fast to count

I’m scared to slow down baby
grief can’t get me now
it sleeps in all my futures
so I’m running, leaving town

Creep

I’m plotting against grief in full steam futility. I’m all-in ignorant in the face of forces that will break me, all-knowing against the wind, and I’m always falling into things, like trying to feel the future from my porch on the cold wood bracing my bare feet to The Sound of Jazz. Like I’ve earned it in bouts of blood through spirals of anxiety in preparations I’ve overthought. My toes are losing touch with reality, but October nights remind me I’m still here and I could never let someone save me from myself, but love me enough to watch me flail and still tell me it’s going to be ok because I only believe it when other people say it. There is going to be breaks when I can’t return the same, when the ugly interiors of my brain lose color and I rely on clichés for comfort about being in a better place. Tomorrow I will wake up thirty-seven, and I’ll wander the forest suspended for those few miles in the damp because there’s comfort in quiet abandon, and betrayal in that creeping grief.

Slipping

I’m losing my voice again looking for signals in the dirt from someone else, slipping into casket fantasies and the death of anything I love. I’ve been dabbling in dark arts again. Stressed in the silence of little secrets I keep like momentary loss on the train, like forgetting the definition of words I know how to spell and use to describe the light. Like convincing myself on a Sunday that none of this is real and the songs I string along on repeat are just constructed to bring me to life. I’m bordering a birthday and all the stories I tell myself are slipping, and some days I want a cigarette to remind me that I’m allowed to love myself and not the person I thought I would be.

Melting

I’ve been melting into the couch. Sliding around my brain looking for way out because if the present is the only thing in life with no ending then I am swimming in unlimited fiction. I’ve got two different voices coming out of my mouth, one screaming love forever, one crippling doubt. The life in my head vs the one on the ground, the sound of my voice from the top out pouring down. The people I talk to talking back out loud about waking up early and late lights out, about drinking too much and campfire rounds, about missed opportunities and long flights in the atmosphere. Life is happening on the borders of sleep, under little silver screens and I’m waking up, stuck to the ceiling looking down at my dreams. 

Everyday

What’s it called
when you need so
  badly to do
everything that
  you do
nothing and
you’re on fire
every day
in effigy
of all the things
you forgot.
And the world
is ending for
another night.

Neurons

I have too many neurons. I know this isn’t true but it tastes right falling out of my mouth. Everything is happening all at once and I think I’m moving too fast but don’t know how to slow down. So, I (do not) have too many neurons. This room has all the right tones and I’m bouncing from the golden hour slouch couch to the deep green jungle cup (lush). I’m starting over every time I blink and the girl at the table across from me has an American Football sticker so I’ll love her yellow curls for the next half hour longing for the two empty seats between us to contain the quotes of a conversation that never happens.

Immediate Violence

Live-wire on the interstate, I’m reading the lines in the road. Saturday morning and I’m in two places at once watching Morse code divide the highway. show me the way to the beach this time, show me the road at night. I’m a little Kerouac in the in the car, a little shadow under the light. First deaths are on my mind but I don’t think that’s what the billboard said. I’d rather be the last death of the year for punctuation and quick mourning. There’s something about a long drive that swings me from one left turn to starting over and -- immediate violence. 

Two Armrests

Four days down, and I’ve been drinking through old haunts and airports. These are my favorite corners of all the small earths. I’m paying a price on a Monday, in the middle seat gaining the territory of two armrests. Stolen between strangers, as if they would know who I was. Jammed in the slot, coach cabin with plastic cup cabernet that I spilled down my leg. Wet ankle at takeoff, and TTX on repeat again (all year)  "I’d have held myself much closer then"

Night Visions Only

It’s hard to see
in here despite all the
mirrors,
reflections on my reflection.
it’s heavy on my eyes
and I change my appearance
often enough to
question recognition
in the early morning
in the wake of three dreams
three different faces,
night visions only.
and I regularly
ignore what everyone
else sees in me,
so I don’t break character.
who am I without
the stories
I believe about myself.

Domestic Flights

there are so many doors in florida
for three days
i was turning toward each one
holding my breath
for an entrance
from the back side of the bar
like i wanted to ruin your day
and the cool confrontation 
of showing up
i wanted you to know i was there
i wanted you to see me 
more than i needed to know it
but im glad this is fiction 
and im unpacking 
eight years of baggage
in airports
on domestic flights

Side Door

snuck in thru the side door
as if someone would’ve noticed another entry.
here to observe and
The Phils are on overhead
dead center, end of the bar.
all my neighbors vacated at the same time
as if it was previously decided on,
two separate parties.
I’ve been told I always look angry
so I’m practicing a softer face
half smile.
I came here to be quiet
and remember the sounds
of Wednesday after happy hour.
songs I know by heart but the names always evaded me
they’re just background sounds
and tonight I’m in the background too.

I’m always falling into things…    
…like the breath between two songs.
Inhale for the former, mourning.
Exhale for the future.

2am

Some nights are fuller than others
I came home yesterday
And laid down to disappear
It was 2am
And I felt the difference between being alone
And being lonely
I am in constant motion
To avoid one of the two

Statistics

Statistically I am destined to fade into the unknown. Sounds ominous, but let’s not do me any favors. I want it to be ominous, it will be a blink. At my funeral someone should read all of my life stats, such as:
How many times did I almost speak up?
How many times did I demand my dog tell me all his secrets?
How many times did I forget what I was saying mid-sentence?
How many times did I really try?
How many times have I listened to Jeff Buckley sing Hallelujah?
How many first dates?
How many times did I need to be seen or heard to remember I was here?
How many miles have I hiked?
How many times did I have to re-tie both shoes because one was too loose and if you only tighten one your other foot will disagree?
How many times did I pick up a guitar and play the same 3 chords over and over and over?
How many windows have I stared out of as if there was another dimension on the other side?
How many times have I wished I was a plant? A dinosaur?
How many fresh starts?
How many books have I read?
How many words can you fit on a grave?