Mother Blue. Joyless Man.

White shine your music for those who never live; dream of symphony death. Mother blue, wet from crying, drives out of the winter lake. Delirious lover beneath, though sad, she is enormous. I am gone. I've seen this before and it leaves a warmth like anything. Don't say a thing until something sinks in deep. Let it sink in and trouble the still waters that run; under those tepid currents, those clearly toneless, utterly speechless words that mean nothing. Those motions to adjourn, those keenings from afar, those melted figures, those harbors lulling, those tin drums. Those pangings of the heart. The inability to sit still. Unable to appreciate; in value, this life, that time, those moments. Nothing sinks in as deep as a memory sitting pretty with pretenses abound like done-up marionettes screaming your doubts. These doubts like a theme song: indecision, loose thinking, vague notions, and poured thick. They sit with neon plastic fencing surrounding, waiting to set into stone. No message writ upon them, no cracks. They will solidify level, solid, and perfect. Immaculate. They will be the path I walk upon. Mother blue, delirious lover, loose talker, nothing so entrancing as a stare into the depths of the pier out across the bay. Don't let them be so quick, these pacings. Slippery like ice upon the script of things I can't read because of the blurring of days. The beating of fists upon the underside of a foot thick layer of winter floe; someone cast upon the current to lay under the ice in the frozen lake. The drifts above keep what lies below from seeing too clearly. The skies above, held without doubt, would be held in vain for that which is trapped under frost can not succumb to the lull of hypothermia without complete lack of thought. Seen through clouded glass without tint, this world drips down like tears across the tired woman's face as she drags the lake in January.

Galley Towing Free of Charge.

My creature is one that tears through itself whenever it sees its visage in the mirror for days at a time without stop. It loses it's panting self in the woods and grants a wish to those teary eyed street urchins lacking school supplies yet clutching Justin Beeber Voodoo Dolls. Pins leap from the chest of the object of affection like growling hounds evacuating a ship burning on the harbor. A look of joy seems to grace the child who grins wickedly; joy like a subtle twitch in the face of the man in the corner with sign language. A languid pool lies loose and slack waiting for the men to come and wash themselves as if they were tormented with a sickness undone by cleanliness. My creature lies awake like the shaft of light leaking through the floorboards. I've seen it appear across the field with a dead eyed stare; marbles rolling across a hardwood floor. Terrifyingly slow, it lopes amid the tired thistles, amber, gray, and maudeline, to meet me halfway. I realize there is a limb outstretched, trembling. It's attached to my body. I've brought with me a bag of corn chips. Without a thought I drop the gift into the maw of this thing. Grinding it's head into the dewy grass with thrushes erupting from the foliage, my creature buries itself out across the bay leaving smoke signals like a requiem. This tried dream devours junk and my creature is sentenced to the maximum penalty. The children disperse to talk about what they saw in the Teen Bop magazine found aside the traintrack. Some images spill out across a continent like milk from a bottle, some like blood from the veins of a thing left long ago. Some creatures tire themselves to appease a stupidity unexplainable, my creature just cooly explains itself to no one.

He Smiles for Lack of a Better Idea.

Who is that tired dog with that restless drone in his eyes like the cascading tide of a drama class screeching to a dead halt? He's putting on his best shoes to kick shit up into the night air with his dim grasp of reality aghast and pale the only thing keeping him country. Lone wolf of midnight; teaching delirium tremens to keep their throes productive and slathering. This moot point that is his life keeps getting bigger. Heaving like a forgotten beast in the depths of the sea that is his mindscape, them darlings sneering across the road are some kind of comic book from his childhood. All those missed questions. All those marks on the record. All those pity mongers leaping over hurdles to stumble crashing through the fragile styrofoam insulation within his skull. No they can't do what he couldn't do for himself. They can't teach his body to become biodegradable. He has a half life of a million years. He has a menial job cleaning up after militant teenagers. He hasn't seen a naked woman in sixteen minutes. He saunters into a hole in the wall and literally quotes something from a passage written in his spine. "What you are is just part of a reference book. It's all common knowledge." The experts told him long ago his smile was just a smile. His teeth weren't tombstones on a moonlight silent expanse of red sand. His brow was just skin. His eyes weren't going to lead those lost ashore. Like a flower in the coming winds of fall, he wilts to think of the night ahead of him. It will be depraved and full of salt. He will render the ground he walks upon barren. He will puke his guts out clutching a looming dumpster full of material akin to his lifestyle. Just another night to keep himself in line. The leash is a mere sixteen feet of freedom. The dog struggles to careen blindly into a wall.