Washed Out

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i wonder. to find god in an empty room when it’s been so long since i've set foot in a holy house, i doubt one would remember my name. i think there’s something i've searched for, been searching for a long time but i'd be remiss to tell you i had any sort of finite grasp on what exactly "it" is. i'd settle just to say there is something missing. there must be more to this. in all my thought i've come across more questions, and questions rise to questions. faith is a dangerous word i've questioned mine for all time and lost it in the process. now i can sit here over the low lit crackling burn of this cigarette and promise you that this inherent faith of mine lies somewhere in the great unknown, i only hope that when the smoke clears and the ashes strung out in front sting the ground that i'll find some sign in all of it, my cavalier christ. maybe i'm asking too much, but hell...you never know what might come out in conversations with strangers in the dark. you could learn more about yourself in five awkward minutes than a lifetime of comforts and picturesque made beds. i like to dream that there are still some originals out there. it’s hard to see, hard to hope it’s not a hoax. harder still to tell what’s real and what feels coming around any corner with the snowfall of false truths and idols on the firing line. the best thing to do is take it all in stride, say always what’s on your mind. move on, and keep moving on in these streets of old gold storefronts and twenty-something teenage icons that line the curbs. right here for the taking, right next to all our faded jeans and washed out American dreams.

Peripheral Bliss

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on rainy days they met afar in peripheral bliss, but when those lonely eyes would lock in the briefest of standstill, they would always only know their lives were parallel, distilled in knee deep wish. the game they played, they fanned the flame until the smoke dismissed; and then one day, one went away, no look, no word, no kiss. the first lie and the last goodbye, immortal for the end of time.

Always Home

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home is marked with signposts, stretched along the roads. home is all their faces, and voices over phones. home is in the pages. home is in the hearts, of lovers and like minds, and spans the world for all time. home is everywhere I am with them in mind. home is on my own. home is dusted in smiles and goodbyes

In Ode

we've all painted pictures of the only past we've known and the further we get the more we grow, the more we turn to stone in memorial of all the colors we once wore. all lives were once upon a time. we've all drawn lines from the past to remind that lives intersect. that all souls are lost. that we've all seen through the eyes of the poet, the preacher, the pariah, and admired the inherently hopeless romance in each our faded past. all to remember to press through cool calamity where saints and angels sing in the name of god on the radio.

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goodbyes were never to be good at, so let's never say them. let us abandon hope, all ye who guarantee belief in death and taxes. turn out your tired, huddled masses unto unconvention, put out the sleeping ashes. awake the jaded from faded funeral plots, pour hearts in revolutionary fashion. exalt in passion for the only souls to know. the nomads. the hot blooded. the tried and true who never say goodbye so long as youth and truth and vintage clashes.

a hope for home, a hope for a soul to grab ahold. that soul is not your own, nor mine, no more than piece of mind collected over time, in many times and many other "mines". a box of benevolence twined and twisted through the eyes and eras some divine, some wicked. somewhere in the ether, offshore beneath the seen, the answers that you seek will never set you free.

The Moon and Rumination

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a man would look upon the stars, with such decisive awe, to find alone his heart. somewhere amongst the solar stories a spark ignites across his eye, and its known that starry heart his own, has set itself apart to signify some meaning in all the streaks and dots across the black-lit sky. luminous and pearled it begs above a world and looms, the view picturesque and human. and should a man alone speak out his soul against the fall of night, he’ll find his heart amongst the stars, from dark against the light.

Exposure

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somewhere along the line there are people, turned to light, etched into experience and burned to memory. these people, the times and words they speak, the places they were when you were too, in the end they all become you. their words inherit yours to share in memorial and wisdom, in expertise for all the dreams and dreamers, for the dreamless, for inspiration and insight. alive inside baiting on every breath for every momentary escape. when your past lives are coaxed with "why's" and goodbyes. parting, losing part of you in the minds of friends and lovers, and often others. but it's all alright, its all exposure, and we're all exposed; and in the end it's all we are. a sum of all the sons and daughters from all the faster fading suns and roads from which we rose.

Last Call

and he'll commemorate this mourning, all holy spirits feared. with the blood of all his vagrants, in his glass revered. a toast to all the angels in the ink of all their prayers. to lives we've left behind, three cheers. they loved us all despite our vices. last call, for all the blessed bare.