Take the Good with the Bad.

Yes the shakes and yes they come and go and they're all a dealt hand. They're all to melt sand. Into glass real fast so I can see clearly for now. For there is a bird in flight with amber green eyes glinting like diamonds roaming through my heart making decoration decisions. Setting it up so cozy and the shadows are shed with light. They bathe and they recede. And they're response is one of bafflement. An exclamatory grimace ebbing into the crimson felt walls to echo through the skeletal system and leave through the ears and eyes; a depthless demise cries out fathomless. The drum is a cavernous one and there is room for the faithless, the faithful, the lost, the found, the leaves, the roots, and the crown. There is everything found in here: it is no surprise that we see through the tears in our eyes as the tidal pool glimmers with youth and problems. Because I do have these sorrow and triumphs. I don't let go of one thing to grasp another. I keep it all together and it makes itself known that it makes me up. The shakes are all part of it.

Red Hot Gothic Rage.

I will try not to let it get the best of me: it can take the worst. Like those aches and pains. And that devious longing that creeps up like a rerun? Oh yes. Just the worst. I have a feeling I'll need the sharpest knife to cut the deepest wound. A removal of sorts to straighten everything out and make me seem crystal clear. A tuning fork spine with a bed full of scars. And it scares me how long it takes to wake up from my recurring dreams. I think the house is falling around me. I'm convinced there is a crowd noting my every move. I rear and buck. There is the red anger. There are my eyes losing sight and glowing white. This is the cause: you are convincing yourself of a lie. And it just gets better and better. The worst is a debt that you can't fret.

There There Misconceptions.

I felt along the lines of the insane.
And I don't know why I say I felt because I still feel it.
But I distance the lines and I get the feeling that they are further from each other than possible.
The treble kick and the feeble sick,
the weather rip and the feather tip.
I do not know.
But maybe they're all inter related and I just don't see it.
And I don't see why.
Maybe the honeybee and the ant are working together and I'm falling over myself trying not to fathom the truth.
That I could never be the same again?
It's a possibility.
That I couldn't work with who I was?
It's possible, somewhere along the line.

Don't Let Me Go. Keep Me On.

All this operational tension and employment bartering: the sea is a seasonal thing as in you see and then you don't. It evaporates like the spendthrift type outside the apartment. And he's lost when the time shift turns past the appointed work shift. There there. This feeling of utterances in the ear; hot and soft. The stipend is beyond over. The trickle down is hot wax and spearmint. Stunning cool and explosions out across the permeated economic landscape. The tycoon weeps bloody dollars while crushing the menial underfoot. Some sort of juggernaut steamroller bringing the blue bloods to their present situations so the crystal can clink together in a toast to present situations. The foreman has one eye rolling like a bowling ball. And he keeps the fabric of the infrastructure sutured together with clothes pins. And he keeps the water flowing even though it means nothing anymore. And the lake drains down to the constancy of collapse. The constancy of ebb and flow. The near and the far. The world careening and letting us just sway with it for now. And the things that we forgot how to love are supporting us. Remember green? Remember blue? Remember salivating and drowning and loosing yourself from the taut rope wrapped so secretly around your neck? Would you gargle with raw sewage? Would you jump rope with a live wire? I thought so.

They Dropped Us Off Here Without Our Consent.

This scent prevails: penniless little kids and those lives fast forwarded in an email stream to return to sender with a defunct address. The Rest Home for the Wicked has gone bankrupt and now the teenagers are drunk and flying out into bread winning casts along the roadways. You call me what my credit card says. The bones are the ones that hold us up aren't they? Then why do I feel this sense of deflation when I feel so empty? They are all in this procession that is leading to the horizon where a slow burn of beaten hymns and depthless pallor shine unadulterated like nothing before. I fucked it up. I sent it out without. I fucked it up. I feel my hands shaking into blurry messes while the tome of this increase writes itself without me. The bricks in the deathly palindrome that is our lives folding so the ends meet: Rest Home for the Wicked. And yet, no rest. Be there or lose hair. From stress.