Looking out this double-paned plate glass window into the gray frigidity and red-leaved bitterness of October in one of the last wild and still-untamed bastions of freedom in the west at the mountains thinking about how even they are moving, my darling, and how the spaces in between them are growing just like the space in between the sun and the earth and the space between all the galaxies all at once and the space between the spaces between the world and I and soon I’ll just be floating all by my lonesome in some swirling pool of- not air, no, not even air, just nothingness and watching everything float away like disappearing city limits from the tailgate of a truck on cruise control zipping across the badlands and maybe you’ll be there but going the opposite way and there’ll be nothing to do but watch it all go, go, go, til it’s
gone, gone, gone

As we lie together naked
smoking cigarettes in bed
running fingers up the curves of my body
he said
"I wish I had more hands"
And now for the first time
to somebody
I am a person
worth loving
not a role
worth filling

When it's October 12th-
When it's a sunny Sunday afternoon
In the fall
When you're curled up in your comfiest sweater
Next to a purring cat curled up in his
And you sit in front of the bay windows of your home
Watching the clouds and cars and wind roll by
Carrying burning yellow leaves
In the updrafts.

When you want something,
but you don't know what.
Maybe it's a want to want,
misplaced in hopes of filling
the ever-present void in you.
Maybe it's happiness.

Maybe it's as close as you'll ever get.

Either way,
Maybe it's enough.

When you want something,
but you don't know what.
Maybe it's a want to want,
misplaced in hopes of filling
the ever-present void in you.
Maybe it's happiness.

Maybe it's as close as you'll ever get.

As i sit here in this downpour
My instinct to be silent
Bathe in that silence
Its ironic pleating
a million single drops of rain
Falling from heaven
Picking up fury as if it heard me
I can feel it get closer as if it could tear holes through this balcony ceiling
And wet me down to my bones
Like our skin does with its blood
In the rose of our perfect union
Louder and loudest untill it is a wall
Will us painting it black waves
With pinpricks of searing rain
Piercing our skin untill it bleeds out
Freedom, while freedom is from Hades
Our pin drops distancing untill the breeze muffles the sound of the storm
Slipping off the leaves , echoing whistling through Holes, like bullets torn through our flesh, rain drops
The wind playing the song that whispers us together

The talent is what we wake up with
And it has got nothing to do with
Being good,
Because everyone has at least some
Ability to do something
In the beginning.

The soul we all have
It's just a question first,
Of volume, second,
Of whether or not we lose it and third,
Of how well we interpret it.
It's the grit
In the battle-cry
It's the blood
On our fingers as we work the neck
Of some great instrument,
Playing on despite the insignificant pain,
With wet strings.
It's the vibration
In shaky muscles clenched
In complete and utter control
To hold a pose for a moment,
And flow into the next.

Skill's the hardest.
And it's got nothing to do
With perfection.
Perfection's an antiquated lie-
No, skill's greater, more intangible
Skill is turning typos into plot movements
And a missed note into a syncopated part of the beat
And each stumble
Into part of the dance.
Skill's in improvisation
Because error is unavoidable.
And when computers and amateurs err,
They freeze up and break down.

A skilled artist knows better-
Knows the mistakes are all just part
Of the grand scheme,
More a product of divine inspiration
Than anything we could have
Meant to do.

There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...

The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,

an ode to humility.

Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.

Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways

in spite.

Fell in love with a caterpillar
Learned to let go of a butterfly

Willow body when she sleeps
Eats and reads Dastardly Seeds
Branbury Bush billiards and beer
Office chairs with thinning venire
Vacancy sign flickering         Lost
Shadows passport pictures unknown
Untitled vagabond day dreams
A home away from a revolver weighing down your coat

Waiting dormant mr mud toad
Vacant house with eviction notice
Bradly bound up rail bonds/ gold fillings just before his wits got to him

The clouds are on fire-
puffs of vapor burning umber, leaving dark trails of ash in the east.

The watery sky takes no notice.