A balance of stimulants and stationary living. Hands rise (ebb/flow/neap/spring) with the expansion of the chest, or along with the synapses firing at random — a macroscopic example of the microscopic jitter that keeps stability preciously available. A sleeping feline with a twitchy tail.

New born eyes take sight of the sun.
Adolescent feathers take flight, or simply run.
The blessed un-grown feet walk between their own eggshells.
Lesson one: your feet will grow.

Lesson two: Your feet stop growing, but you’ll make deeper prints.

These sweats will cool out.
Those shakes will level off.
Neither more than a side effect of environmental adjustments of the two rooms I reside. The room that is my mind, and the room I don’t really mind.

My life is measured in swizzle sticks.

The way Oppenheimer grasped the stars, beyond the thought of reach. A theory with established reason, proven through practice, the conformation and devastation of absolute power. A concept destroying its own context.

I am become death, with the advent of mechanical and chemical reasoning applied to my own mystery. A destroyer of worlds birthing new; a stubborn example of life chasing it’s own coiled tail, shaking hands with the end of it’s own timeline.

All considered… I’ve gone and survived, yet again. I wouldn’t have it any different.

Lesson three: The cosmic joke of being alive (a life) is worth laughing about every morning.

Let’s hatch.

Today I can’t write whimsically, nor dreary.
Today I can’t right a single thing.

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry”.
I’d left it with you on more than one occasion.

My chest is on fire, and for the first time in my life…
I just want to be drunk.

Growing and giving (up).

The end.

September 3rd, 1:0X am

Even if these words fall on deaf ears, with the right timing I might catch you leaning against a wall and you’ll feel the tone, or at least what resonates with wood.

Climbing to the point where equations meet, sloping in curves that roll marbles down a path faster than a straight line.  Greater than or equal to desperation; equal to or less than despair; luck that has to balance out.  Ambition is seemingly irrational and imaginary, but these days it’s a better bet that the notation is smudged, and it’ll take a lifetime to figure out if it’s positive, negative, or switching every time it grows.

Somethings going to happen tomorrow, certainly a shame it’s still christmas eve at 4am, or even when the sun rises, because everyone seems asleep.  Some days never start.

A low light amasses; a massless concentration intensifying.

Eating the shadows of the pines against streetlights.

Swallowing up the thrill of no-one-in-sight.

Turning at the dead end sign on your path to a place of rest.

Two gloves, four hands, all warm if you’re close enough to hold the spares.

Train tracks hauling industry through failed attempts.

They paved over what they thought was hell.

No one was allowed in, though we snuck through holes…

Now vacant of reason.  I could have told them the secret.

It was only a place for luck to turn.

Where to?

This is all really worth its wait in gold.  Time is money.

A selected few cyclical cynicisms chip away, certainly we feel jaded and brittle, though on closer inspection the damages caused are only superficial — Our life time, a time tide, pulling in spring and neap, leaving our bodies bruised as cliffs rocky from erosion…  but the shores below warm with white sand, slowly soaking the experience.  Alive and glowing.

Wandering with no destination is difficult, no matter if it’s two (hundred), or twenty (thousand) miles.  There’s this feeling like you’re trying to keep a thought from escaping (it’s imminent and fleeting; omnipresent and uncertain) but you’ve misplaced your pen… and then suddenly you decide that you’ll let it find its way back to you.

It’s been a downpour, to say the least.

Everything between us is raining cats and dogs, and now I’m allergic to every point of dew and all the dander-filled-fog left in the morning air.

Meetings and memories with a studder — relationions. Relation onions.

I’m sure this metaphor sticks, I’ve chewed it long enough, but I can’t define it to a particular person, selected somebodies, or everyone I’ve ever met.  Just not quite yet.  Something like layers, tears, and biting back.

Kick-back-fire-place-to-be.  It’s cozy, warm, choking, and unpredictable.  I know it’s never a good idea to turn your back to a fire (or an ocean), but the excitement, measured in Fahrenheit, is reaching out against my back.

Steps away from the combustion, this is about the only thing that drops the tension… and I can’t bare to face the reality.