angk-shuz

You better stay away

you got me angk-shuz

knuckles like battleships

at the ends of my armadas

firing squad fingus

blazin badabadabada!

laying you flat like

newsprint for tilapia

leave you out for days,

you both smell like shit

I smell you from here

"REALLY DOWN TO EARTH"

game, you know I know your game.

game.

'I like you, too! But yeah, gotta go, don't follow!"

shit's like high school locker room dramatics,

but your life is fluid, tugs from all directions.

gotta jet, gotta meet, gotta eat my collection

dainty daisies ripe, ripe, so you pluck,

'cept the swift lily white of my good luck

PLEASE don't think this is about you.

that would make me so HAPPY punk.

SMILES with less teeth look unimpressive.

Like an GLEEFUL apology from a drunk.

shut up.

Honestly

It's not about your eyes.

It's not about your beauty. Your kiss. Your anything beyond your heart. I know those parts very well. They are the book that I have read alone, to study it deep. Deep like low notes. To study it within the slow tones. The rumbling dischordancers of a slow techno. You are too alike to my kind of safety keeping. To hold them at a certain wonderful, terrible distance. Far enough for whispers to fall silent. Whispers of illumination. Whispers of lovelihood. Close enough for kisses to fly clear across my cross-eyes forehead and touch down like a moon lander out of focus. Who is this? Who are this? How lucky and wrong am I?

BUT BELIEVE ME! I understand. My heart is one of those tinier ships, with the captain at roost with a lazy ankle guiding the tiller with one hand holding a book of verse and a hand on my thin-as-shit neck hoping that one of the pages makes the pulse quicken and causes me to move. make we want. makes he stand and run. and not be done. to shade the sun from everyone. My heart, too, moves like dust on fancy shoes. Riding the invisible tide of secrets to hide.

And obviously, that's not a happy place to be. No. But it is A place to be, and I will never complain from a lack of location. Because being in pursuit of a larger love is always considered "A" place to be.

So sink your teeth into my DANGEROUS inequality. I am largely unwritten. Largely unbitten. Still eyeing the yarn, like a ferocious knitting club. caste. Still eyeing the yarn, still imagining the slightly larger than life perspective of things.

Keeping me softly.

So that's what I have for now.

polyanna

sprinting the stairs of a rustic ruin-

quick around the crumbling stones-

ankles burning with the magnitude-

ascending on and streaming cheeks-

hands solid, I grip an agéd flagpole-

bearing words to beckon you back-

it is a simple phrase that all know-

alike to seeds, simple words grow-

I scream with delight to reach top-

my eyes scanning the horizon scar-

each breath tears for how you are-

distance breaks, builds, then dies-

but reconnects your shimmer eyes-

it's sticks, swift, like windy spears-

deep into my hidden, melting guts-

holding my arms back like cassius-

betraying my hunger for your yes-

I wave the flag to the sun and sky-

to warn the wind of my raging cry-

Tremble, clouds, I'd call you down-

the moment I saw you hiding her-

Nature crimes in the azure climbs-

whisking winks and simpler time-

I stamp and shout against my kind-

the ones that go, the ones outside-

banner raised against the sounds-

of a barefoot heel against ground-

I call again, my voice shreds calm-

my thunder, still, is a cannon song.

clamor dancer

for the love of god,

let's take this mountain.

let's take a breath and release a fire blazing cloud of whispers.

whispers of our future.

immediate. killing the past.

the world to be will fear our dreams.

like a lamb, fearing a wolf, or a lynx, or a goat with knivessss

we are creatures. animals. herds. we survive like animals.

we die like computers. we die like pictures.

we die like the swarthy fats legs of deadly promises.

FOR ONCE LET'S LIVE LIKE CLAMOR DANCERS!

let's rip off these powdered wigs

let's teach ourselves a new cave to paint.

LISTEN TO ME! I'M A CREATURE, I PROMISE YOU I WILL BITE!!!

we all will bite once we see how sweet the fruit shall be.

SHALL

WILL

we all will bite once we see how sweet the fruit shall be.

for the love of god,

let's take this mountain.

let's take a breath and release a fire blazing cloud of ancestry.

you and I. let's breed.

our thoughts combine and seed.

Our thoughts combine and proceed.

thought mothers.

thought fathers.

there's no stopping them.

rabbits.

kudzu.

the uneducated third world.

or is it DISD...

who knows?

BUT OUR THOUGHTS! IF THEY GREW LIKE THESE!!

but be careful. someone will strike you down. soon. for your radical freedom.

the american revolution will not be televised. or on facebook. or on tumblr. or tweeted between bullet rounds whizz past your liberated ears. the revolution will happen in your homes. community centers. churches. temples. mosques. afterschool programs. the revolution will occur in the resurfacing desire for a wholeness. a unity. people will discover their loneliness. and their loveliness. people will realize their need for you. your need for them. this is all just hypothetical, but when the dusty wigs are gone and we peer past the product to the oily roots of our human heads, we will see the skin that hides the skull that hides the brain that stores the love of our lost, broken hearts. Please meet me on the mountain. please don't kill yourself for your childhood.

"Forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past" - Buddy Wakefield.

FOR ONCE LET'S LIVE LIKE CLAMOR DANCERS!

let's rip off these powdered wigs

let's teach ourselves to dance is to breath.

spin in a circle and get high on your gravity.

whoa stomach!

instant transmission
to be sent out immediately.

I have a journey to take.

I will be there for a while.

hopefully, I will make it through.

that is all.

sick

i've been ruined.

from too much reading.

from too much reflecting.

refracting.

reacting.

Process-based art work is a cunning adversary.

It will haunt your quiet - make you unquiet.

It will stunt your peace - make you violent.

I could have had different aspirations. People do that - have different aspirations than I.

And I get it. I own that. I am sick.

I have a disorder. A wrong order. My brain and soul are mal-organized. I have failed to see the picture that someone built the world with.

I see a completely different one. I keep reading about it in the dreams of others. Olders. Over-therers. Over-sharers. It's-not-fairers. I'm-not-scareders. Be-prepareders. I read about the world that we both live in. They arrived much before I did, but probably around the same season of their life. It's the struggle to discover which parts of my dreams are actually my dreams now, and what I can change about all of our dreams gone-by. Its a struggle to match my shopping list with anything I can possibly find around. I'd like to become the hometown hero for planet earth. Hike to the top of the great human mountain and proclaim to the wooded avoidance of gasping space: "I figured out why everyone is afraid of you! I know now why you leave everyone out of your plans! I've come to make it right!" And after that, the stars and planets would tiptoe cautiously in curious circles around a game of pick up sticks between the universe and I.

My neck hurts.

a new title every day

descend. quickened vines.

choke. a pause.

aromatic suffocation of bliss.

begin again.

arrive.

here.

you know. but you don't.

neither of us will ever.

jagged.

beware.

be warned.

be warm.

be one.

dumb

this is how it feels when I lie

with my hands.

with what I do.

with all my time.

to you.

I don't deal in

time machines.

or projecting smiles

on movie screens.

this is how it looks when I suck.

but just as icebergs,

and bruises,

and arguments,

and the little thread that lazily asks to be pulled from your sweater,

I know there's more involved than a symptom.

this is how it sounds when you sigh.

you can pull down the curtains,

and save the dusty lights,

you can forget the shows and matinees,

if we aren't feeling right.

I could care less about figuring out how to plan my day.

truly.

If I could find your head's address in that shimmering

jiminy cricket phone book, I would track down your

braindoors and leave a stack of my thoughts.

mostly about you. don't tell anyone.

well, shit, if you did, they would tell you the same message from the notes.

i've got you...

(and I hold you closer)

under my skin.

thank you.

I'm getting there.

I really should take more vitamins

shiverss

scrapeng

lethargek

I have a bone to pick with my lover, art,

I have a won't to kick from my cover. Start

a process of foundation for my heart

to sing and bring me water to dissolve all'f

my fears and steer me from a bigger question.

I suppose the mistress that is, in reality,

a pigment

in a stroke

from the field

of a painting

says a dream:

will remain elusivvv.

ART! YOU SAID YOU WOULD WAIT FOR ME!

No, not surprised. I'm apparently just as flakey.

(change of thought)

But it's because there's always something more to learn.

is that why I don't call? yup.

Because there's always something more to learn. Out there! From the OTHER PEOPLE!

I'm currently 24,

working on a year of strident starvation; trading hours of sleep for hand-me-downs from

scattered artistic fathers and mothers.

I like it. I get it. Kinda.

BUT JUST THAT. I KINDA GET IT! I BARELY GET THIS! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET WHAT YOU'RE GOING THROUGH EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY!?

is this because I don't tell you everything? because I haven't filled out a questionnaire on my own life and left it indiscreetly on the ledge of your nose?

DOESN'T CHANGE my LOVE FOR YOU. JUST MEANS THAT YOU NEED TO FIND your LOVE SOMEWHERE!

and I suppose that's the point.

Just as food,

or movies,

or sport,

or music,

or poems,

or afternoons,

or jobs:

Friendship is a distinctly different color in the back of each person's eyes.

we can barely agree on anything. why should friendship be any different?

doesn't mean I can't love you.

doesn't mean I can't care.

just means we should talk more. out loud.

(back to art)

:) i like the way you feel in my hands.

when I am learning or teaching, art, you

seem a little dangerous.

keep it up.

give me those tingles.

My skrix

like a knife in a neck, I got skrix thas a fakk.

Im the clue to a puzzer, chompin dohz in a muzzer

I felf a little iffy when I sef the world on fearz

turn the tv on quikk wi'needle noze plearz!

the clip in the reel that got cut from the show,

my only owned skrix pleasure tied in a bow.

I got ten toze tearin trakks, teashin tykes to tremble,

divin down dem dykes dousin daylight in a thimble!

keep out! keep out! I gossummfin in my fenguz,

clop clopin on pave stonz dream of karaoke senguz.

done.

In the clutches

I want to try all of it.

To waste away with a mark on every list.

Claiming every station as my home.

But I'll never grow better at anything.

I need to find a passion.

That burns like a screaming arrow.

Straight up, into my brain.

Something I can't let loose.

Then I will tear away and drown in it,

like a scrupulous toddler in a picture book,

diving and quaking in my revelations.

I will be defined.

Eventually, all I will be good at will be withering,

taking the scenic route to a wall with no story.

Waiting for someone to turn my chair towards a window.

It's dark with the shades drawn.

But now I can't seem to rest;

I attempt every second second

at each dangerous trinket of a skill.

Something to write home about.

Something to write about alone about.

Waiting for the rights to tell every passerby:

I DID THIS, I DID, I SWEAR, I CAN PROVE IT!

It's a little prideful.

Selfish coin set aspinnin',

and every glance you take,

I'm a different glint of arrogant.

But I'm pretty enough for neutrality.

I share my thoughts much too freely.

Like a barrage of letters

from the same no. 1 fan!

You're already swamped reading the first word.

But I mean well, I mean what I mean;

no malice, no argument, I don't care enough to hate.

But I don't know if I care enough to really give.

Which brings us back to doe.

I need to fire myself from speaking,

a gag, a bandana, a mask, and a lock.

So I will listen for once.

Truly, to listen and dutifully so.

high ho! Onwards towards september!

hungry

insatiable.

eat and eat,

sinkin' teeth.

forks and fortnights.

hooks and harmony.

I want to see you.

for a spell.

I want to become a taxable poet.

That's a poet that the government can take money from.

'Cause their poems are gangster.

ugly

your gums are showing,

your eyes collapse

like an embrace,

like a curtain.

you turn,

you have to turn.

none of us can stare victory in the face.

cards shown,

battle plans spread out,

the piggy bank just broke over your head.

who would want you now?

seeing your ugly smile?

no picture, no painting,

no, not even your own mirror

will witness your blister.

gasp at your giddy.

you where meant to be that animal.

the feverish pearlescent shadow of your fitface.

do you think I'm a fool? Because I AM a fool.

I'm also smiling in secret.

scratching and wincing. I can't get rid of

my sick sick smile

who could know?

so quick to the tool chest,

yellow plastic shovels,

quick to the ground-

quick to the clearing,

brushing back the leaves and clutter

you toss your head back in sky-

bending, straining in the

packed mud, get down there,

all the way, six feet, six days,

six winks deep in the dirt.

rip and shred, the smile weakly peels

off your cheap cheeks and spills,

like chalk dust trails into the ditch.

your ugly smile

makes you a babe.

a super babe.

have you seen yourself?

it's up there. all of it.

disaster ready.

be warned.

I might try to carve your face into shape.

I just might press and press,

until laugh lines become laugh streets.

laugh borders to cheek kingdoms.

I will hold them there to remind you

after I disappear

when you stare briefly at yourself in

a car window or the lake water at your feet-

I was there. in your eyes. for a moment.

long enough to ruin your cool.

deep enough to see your eyes shine.

and real enough for the light to blow back

and tear through mine. thank you.

a step

crunched cases,

packed faces,

sipping elbows-

-to the races!

eating time,

feeding mine,

every other

minute I'm

taking steps,

oh, please let's

fill the cup

to the next.

it's the rush:

men and girls,

women'n'boys

in order fills.

crinkled plasts

and flavor blasts

a winking sleeping

bruise bleeds past.

The race for sunlight

turtle stance,

vomit trail,

and druggéd glance.

I keep the hearts

of my beats down,

to a slower, please,

to a sense of ease...

chatter sticks,

flips, flats and lips,

lists, lids and lashes,

pathetic starch ships.

in the row, cursing

birth, the search

morning past it's

own shanty dirt.

It's a damn fine

morning, here

on the road. It's

looking clear.

Keeping time

with the purses and

creased sleeves

of wanderers:

I am as false

as the good

morning - breathing,

an ornament.

So the task.

the plan. blueprints.

plans for further

stacks and stabs.

I have a silent moment.

duck my head under

the waters edge-

whoooof!

A crystal beam,

sounds drown

to a golden brown.

(exhale)

so tired. again. staple my eyelids up and keep hustlin.

shooof, shooof, shooof,

blinking for bravery. birds in the branches keep my shoulders rustlin.

kshh, kshh, kshh

(inhale)

get. that. for my mouth.

just write it down.

water tension.

you break it, you're by it.

lately the sky's been full of knives.

waiting for a cloudless, comfortable day

to bully.

•••

We've been bruised.

Unused.

silently catharting to

the moving picture shows

of the passerbys.

we have a shade tree.

enough room above to stop the rain:

water or hotter,

and below,

the fertile living room of dandelions.

you hand me a memory,

sharper than some have been.

you stir, then breathe once.

You've had this one for a while now.

it's a keeper.

it's cold to the touch,

and light in my palm,

"i was really frightened."

you have a knack for

owning your fear.

always cool,

ninja princess,

like a three piece suit

with iron sides, equipped,

with swiss army eyes.

precedents aside,

you don't have to act strong.

I know how it goes.

how silence can grow.

scream it out and re-possess yourself.

heat seeking missus

not a quake

or a shake,

but a snarl,

don't mistake,

my intent,

not incensed,

just a dream,

the advent:

someone stirred

some, it cured,

like a mixture

like a word.

Besotting me,

re-potting fees,

re-plant from

former libertrees-

Don't you know,

a silent show,

to best applaud,

you simply glow.

You mustn't let

a single soul

drown the trumpets

your whispers stole.

Not scared of heights,

or tendre sights,

the tambre's wild,

in your eye's lights.

Not a quip,

or a sip,

from a spoon,

from the tip.

But instead

from my head,

deafened kind,

what you said

"hello"

plunge,

sink,

submerge,

submurder,

deeper, deepest

back of my eyes,

bullet train to the back of my head.

remember those glances forever.

do it.

I try not to.

to run.

to not run.

to forget and ninja-scurry

to the past, lost, loved loves.

to eat the present moment

like sweets-

to digest and move on,

like sweets-

but this isn't food.

it isn't consumption

it's irrigation,

the metal age,

agriculture,

government

you're building a world on the slanty insides of my skull.

So I say again

"hello"

hope it's as loud:

shattering,

shuddering,

stuttering,

muttering.

You make me speak bad english.

So just remember that when

we meet at the embassy.

I have documents to translate.

and it's growing dark, late.

My coat is just so (to here)

and just so (to there).

But there are places to hide and speak.

at the end of this stanza,

turn away and count to ten.

out loud.

then imagine asking me

the pivotal.

the next.

the true.

and when you turn back,

the end will speak to you.

**********************

I gave a sigh;

that's a thing you give --

when all that's left,

you leave to live.

Puff sleeve

It's a little catastrophe-

each meager melody.

Artists are these hopeful bastards that live for the glow of storytelling.

Hopeful in that magic is real to them.

Bastards in that the actual making of magic renders them false.

Artists live for a mutual freedom that exists in the distance between a canvas and it's viewer.

The freedom for each to shed a pre-existing identity.

'Before I saw a Pollock, I thought his work was a busy mess. But when I turned the corner at the modern, I realized that I, in fact, was a busy mess.'

Who could be bold enough to suggest that we are unhappy or incomplete? Art.

Who could be innocent enough to plead for us to stop fighting and abusing ourselves? yes.

We are continually on the defense. Mostly from ourselves. We stand outside our own doors, waiting to let in. Waiting to be escorted to the dingy living room and offered a seat. We will most likely sit across from ourselves for quite some time. And then, on a a large breath, we will ask "Where have you been?" We will glance quickly to our aging knees and scratch the cold, neglected patch of skin behind the ear. the left ear. "Oh, I don't know."

We need a way of communicating with ourselves. Communication is the foundation of great relationships. The relationship most vital is that with oneself. If there is a lack of openness with oneself, an individual can begin making terrible, ill-informed decisions. Where we work. How hard we work. Why, then, we work. For whom we work. All a part of a persons identity. All part of a persons needs.

Art, turned outwards or kept in, is the soul manifest. We all need a way of safely breaking back in to ourselves.

ugh. more later.

I can't always know if I know.

Point of reference.

A point.

A contact killer. Sweetness.

I can only run so fast. only so.

Which I suppose better be in my favor.

Bullets, Bears, and Bi-Planes will always gain too easy.

But the sweet.

the sweet is a different kind of lassoed love.

GET OUT.

no.

yes.

gosh. I can't handle the sides of most things tectonic.

Against you there's little chance of survival.

You know that both doves and darts have wings.

But a kiss that flies at me both coos and stings.

Twisting like the words of an ancient law book. As a letter fades into the dirt. breaking apart with moisture. Ink mixing with the minerals. dripping syrupy scents of the frantic, granite coils. Symbiotic themes of rebirth. She wants to see. She wants to sink in. To sink. To find. To end.

to end.

to.

thank you for understanding. at least the madness. not everything else. That's the best for now.

(glance)

It's never too early

It's never too late-

I hope by and by,

my path demonstrates.

It's never a fault,

and it's never conceited-

It's not some grand illusion,

but don't feel defeated!

It's not a hard task,

but " simple's" not the word;

It's an investment you make-

a symptom that's cured.

It's as light as a penny,

but as heavy as wealth-

to bask in forgiveness,

and be okay with yourself.

night, you dreamkins.

temptation

It's nostalgia. Either towards a life that was or wished.

Pain. Towards a point of remembering.

Towards a point of reliving.

Or perhaps a dream.

It's control. Attempted. tempt.

It's a relief. Obviously. Even if you die to it.

Honorable death in war. That's normally when danger is ignored.

It's familiar.

We are letters with broken seals - a page missing.

I can't tell you the words you want to hear.

They're just as broke broke as you could hope.

You're a spiders' web of wrong turns.

You're a broken skillet and finger burns.

You have a silly habit of being alive -

but we really don't know if you truly survive:

your screams and screams, at nothing at all.

You scream and scream at a blank blank wall.

If we are truly predisposed to death, you are the catalyst.

We all have it coming,

But you got it running.

Hit the ground running on 39 broken legs.

40's just gonna give you more bandages to change.

Do you get it now? Even your breath has got to breathe.

Even your changes have got to evolve.

You eyes must see everything new.

Encyclopedia Brown that shit.

Give me a hug and mean it. I do.

No one gets on this list and leaves without a fight.

I want to give you something to yell about. to write home about. to write "H.O.M.E." about.

to write it down. to fill those blank, blank walls. So go.

go.

It's all there for you. inside you.

I never lied about this.

But I basically lied about everything else possible.

I did:

My art.

My age.

My name.

My love.

My innocence.

My fear.

My limits.

My sanity.

endlesss-----

But I never lied about this:

It's all there for you. Inside you.

That's where all the lies are kept, as well.

There are great things. Beautiful things.

Aspects, habits, capabilities, lessons, talents, passions.

yes. it's all there. surprise.

But yes, you could forget. Choose to forget. Distract. Discount. Disappear.

©©©©©©

I am the buzz of a television after you have gone to bed.

I will shake, and shake, and shake, and shake.

I can spill the stories of thousands of years at your feet.

But you will not wake. not wake. not be woked. wook. wouk. ed.

The T.V. that is me will spit out sparkle names,

chant the parts of your body, eat a little meaning.

It bleeds light in such a sorrowful way. Gifts,

never ever seen again. The light fades past my ears.

right and left.

The light picks up the particle in air of my bedroom.

The curtains of light sweep over my eyes, exposing a new layer,

like a viscous fabric shield of a lake, or bathtub.

Or glass of water at the house of a playmate.

The lever of fingers.

Hold well, the walls of your heart.

They will try to crumble at the sight of the great beyond.

you have what it takes.

good night.

Don't worry about things-They've already worried enough about you.

I don't want anyone to see me.

But I kind of want them to see me.

I don't want anyone to hear me.

But I sort of want everyone to hear me.

I'm singing in the rain again: I have ceased to fear.

If you understand much about marine biology, or any biology, or grocery shopping-

When they get rid of something that we all relied on - Something else will come along that fills the void until the expected better option replaces it. Except it rarely does.

I have a buddha laugh bubbling up inside right now. It's proving to be a bit ridiculous. I am a believer in positivity. It's productive, it's supportive, and it's novel. apparently. I just want to tell them all. I just want to let them know. Let them in on the secret. We will open the old rusty latch and brush away the ivy to find the handle to an ancient, musty wooden door. The wall will inhale/exhale with the unexpected breach. Like a surprise glance from the exit of an airplane terminal.library.CVS parking lot. But there you will be, closing the door behind you, with the relapse and the darkness and plenty of cigarettes several inches behind a whistling forever. a stifling never of locks and bit-off nails.

for now.

oh behave...

there's a hint of danger in everything he touches.

Under the rain, under a tree

this place for us to become 'we.'

I'll give you a secret,

you'll give me a look.

I'll publish your nuance

in a leatherbound book.

Translations will spread,

in all manners and forms-

Adaptations will spring,

a piece each culture performs.

From odes in the highlands,

to cries from the sea.

Silent poems grow from the empty,

so they will always find me.

**

I will grind the teeth right down. All the way down.

So I gum my toothbrush in fretful fretful fear.

I will press my eyes 'til my tears I can finally control.

But that still won't make you appear.

There are too many questions. selfishness. opinions. blah.

I will give and sacrifice and spend time alone with you.

But that still won't make you stay.

I could set up camp in your living room, making tea and serving up tid bits of old news.

But that still won't keep your attention.

Gladly. Gladly.

a leak

fsss...

just a little hole,

a slight imperfection...

letting out the pressure, the power, the purpose.

get off my yard.

get off my yard.

off.

I'm not angry. Anger is unproductive.

I'm confused. I don't get it. I don't get the look, the lies, the phrases.

REEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAL.

like a body. broken by traffic. bullets. be as real as the cadaver of my grandfather. immediate. say something that you feel. my grandfather couldn't feel, so I felt him. static. stuffed. candle cold. be something significant. not simply something easy. please, don't be comfortable.

i don't care to have it.

because you don't know, obviously, what makes me comfortable. intention, intention, intention.

fsssss...

a leak, a break-

a sleek mistake.

get over it.

hoo

I feel like I just had a heart attack. melodramaaaa

your flight fell twenty feet inflight and your eastern soul got ripped out, still,

noise noise noise noise noisen,

poison.

If something is important to you. PLEASE.

make it so.

make it so. I know, I know I say that now. I KNOW. I get it. I'm learning. I'm aching. I'm aging. I feel the tug. When I don't sleep well, and I wake fitful, wretched.

I'm spitballing now. I'm adorned with paper-lantern-post-its. crinkly fur. pastel petals, pin-pricked to my first shirt. my first shirt. each note a screeching misspelled secret that I don't believe. Yet, I keep writing them. Each mirrored surface in double. once for my ego, once for my echo. both to spurn me.

cold pockets. I keep them empty.

What is it that I do? I push the boundaries. Mine. Of course I'm alone. Not a question. Geometry. When you shift the fabric towards the shape of a cone. A shuddering speed, one direction, til there is really only one space to sit in, and then you thrust your sword in that last crevice of attention. early blindness. always blindness. blurredness. assuredness.

cold pockets. If they were full, the silhouette would be ruined.

I think that I am really the soul of some monk of me traveling well into another town/country/custom. get it?

He was sailing away from the coast with the strict task of belief. To listen, to sit, to liquify- and I still stuck at the door of our departure, realizing what my home looked like from a few steps away in the yard. Rotating like an owl-head, piercing the nostalgia again and again, with my body and my plans LEAGUES ahead.

Maybe I should go. Amongst the animals.

Side note, someone put me on a rack and Strrre-----tch me. I feel like my boots look.

HEART, RESTART, HEART, RESTART.