Worst Case Parade
no matter how many times you tell yourself "everything is ok" the unsettling edges of overthinking parade and with every worst-case scenario, your breath has run away
False Minor Victory
feelings of fading and a life steadily on the sidelines as a version of me, out there, fumbles, flaws and all in false minor victories under flags to fall
And The Desert Shines
There’s a certain tinge to timing. When words are worked, and perfect letters lift a curtain in the way they leave some lips. Time tested, for smiles left in airports where I never turned back; and before it’s known, a scene starts moving, unfolded from the former, and people, places are more than walk-pasts and dreams-ons. More than memories in the face of the fatalist brevity of the best encounters. That certain change. The tinge of timing rinses, off-white to bright, and the desert shines to summer.
The Corners
The things I have seen in the corners of my eyes. the peripheral pastor, the passing of minds…A slip, a fall, a twist of time. I saw some present or some future awe, side by side, or was it at all…Quickly glimpsed, quickly gone. Clipped and borrowed for a blink. I stop and wonder, and recede into questions, into me, it was not there, or so I think…
To Dance Around
a choice, in defeat of all design. always a choice to dance around your fleeing mind. but left to chance, a choice is felt to pass, a crime to wave goodbye.
Everything Unknown
too distracted. always infatuated. everything unknown is all i'll love. everything i've loved is now unknown.
It Started With A Song
it started with a song. from ancient to annuity, back before we knew at all. now in this glass reflections stain the places that we saw. left a mark in circles drawn concentric, and though clandestine times they knew me by, the center started small. now i am, then i was, and here we are memorials each dawn. the bleeding back prolific, the trials, tears austere. it started with a song and now they're all for here. so smile back, a while back, a toast to you and years.
Drunk Messiah
I can come as close to god in any three letter word as any drowned out drunk believes. holy spirits, high stakes, graceful saints in shambles shading smooth poetic truths. they stumble through the tall grass in broken shards and bleed to bliss. mumbling hymns for sinners. holy wars, for holy ghosts, from holy waters spoke. they come in three, to blind believe a word a god alone.
Good Winter
I sit here solemn under skull & bones among these colors, caught by corner consciousness. in good winter wonder, love, what revolution must have held for us. in bottom bottles and pinprick baited breath, I struggle still to leave forever what's been left when only Christmas creaks could last.
The Sun Exalted
from today, my quiet corner splashed in sun exalted and the news that smiles back, from miles back for time, I find, today I wander back. this window warmth, this black is silk and soothing, so that all the lives I've lived and left before me effloresce.
Eager Sleep, Believer's Shore
such eager sleep i'm drawn, arms outstretched for dawn. we'll never reach, we'll never speak. the shore outlines the fall. in melted days before, arms outstretched i loved in all my worst and kissed in all my best so sleep for now and sleep forever melt along the shore. if we cold only speak the beach was just a moor.
Encore Everyday
this blessed binary, this only other self. person and persona through the encore every day. the past at last will come to play, but in the hours in between who forever came to stay?
Still The Silent Night
sing a silent night,
sing a holy chord.
the silence all alone at night,
the silence all a chorus.
feign and reign and blessed thou,
blessed are the bright.
in eyes and lies
the truth to stand
draped in holy style
Tapped
a vein that runs through me that still belongs to you, and when i tap that rush, that flood, that fools excuse...so only now i'll whisper still the truth that pours to chill; this place it taps a vein in me that still belongs to you.
Wide Eyed and Whiskey
what world for you endured in outskirts of convention? far from home and the comfort of that old front door, fleshed from the threshold in mind, reduced to fading contemplative notions in wistful times and reminders of never going back. the climb was longing, the tears revealing, smiles unnerving and the cost all blood, but the crest is high and the wave is riding while the view stays foreign, wild, and the whiskey burning irish. the good ones close now, the mad ones madder, the penance softer by soliloquy, and still, the sun sets in esoteric evenings, red and orange equal on the ground.