On the move.

A cold two days prior, but this bus travels me south regarldess of I feel. Funny, but not laugh out loud or crippled with spasms or silent bursts of spasmotic convultions. No, funny in the sense that it’s not really funny at all.

Southward. Pulled by gravity alone, by the weight of these restless legs and the angle of my decisions along this road.

The ship wanes westward and this curve bends backward in a closed-cycle loop from here. I can see all the way into the past if I’m looking up on a moonless night. Venus and a comet sailing its way to death in the sun.

My sun.

Someone talked to me, yesterday, like I was in the know. I thought, secretly, I am only alive. Another spoke to me like I was just one other piece in the magnitude of society. I thought, then, secretly, I am the world.

My arms stretch wide and leaves fall from my fingertips, orange and red and brown dried-up. My spine goes from my skull down into the center of molten rock at the core of this sphere my feet are planted on. Up from roots sunk deep into composting soil, the tendrils of my heart find nutrients and nourishment for life. I am, but for a few seasons, alive. More meticulous llife beyond me will destroy this beating organ and return those bones and minerals from whence they were once extracted.

The burden this body bears is strange, but it is mine — alone — to carry. Carry it into the fire, the wind and rain, the storms that circle around my head like lazy vultures waiting, patiently, for my end.

When I end, this world will eat me.
And life from my belly will sprout like a seed my birthing planted in my core.
There was no way to remove it, but one day it would surely sprout.

Funny thing is, I have been waiting. I’m not sure why.
Possibly, I felt that seed more than I felt the ghosts that bore it for me. More than I loved the lines my wires got tied to. More than the lies I was told at some point were the point. I learned, pretty quick, that the thing I thought was wrong was this life, beating wings — waiting to be born.

I am a phoenix egg, and I hold my fire until it cannot help but burst forth.
Please don’t stand too close or you might get burned.

Subete wa mechakucha.

Sonme ga shite vem.

Nele, shisha no balsa gue mono no ji a partir antana terra vida ga mortos. Ney e tarifa shiharawa reru ser pago, antan ga tempo que genkan kuchi entrada para made ni, anata ga melhor kuso sore feito ita. Se antana sa rete desperinai, anata wa sozidearu.

O no tsugi no sonme wa, hanarete para longe. Balsa wa, anata ga carrga hisu ney shinakattashi, aishite inai percisa ama. A verdade da beira wa anata ga, sono-mar e que ni tobu koto pode vaor vida ya tenko ni pelas sa nuven rete tempro e flutuar fujo shi, desperofu ney seiksoken fora para e kotodearu.

Anata ga voltar, anata wa minogashite ita perdeu anata ga kimasen.

Shitsumotao wa uma caiza preta, e garasu de aco. Watashi wa como caiza de nodarou ka.

Antana ga coisas demo, kansen di himitsu mesmo quando no, completamenta secreta koto ga dekir koto wa, koto de anata ga espalhado em todo hairu ni imediaketto nir hirogeta. Uchi toki y fora frita-se, nandida mono tonouw ourta coisa. Soshite com esta selo, esta shiru, esta saigo no miru — anata wa vida matamata. Vida Aratameta.

Vem, sai shiko shite novasai. Wareware ga vamos no balsa ni sobre mimashou.

Sore wa setido que hatsunetsu ney shireporta.

Fire of the flesh versus gear of the wheel

Now is as good a time as any to say o bem ikedo. Oh well, oh well.
To say fuck it, forget it, farewell.

This double-standard only gets us all so far.
Stare straight into each other’s eyes and say, just this once, that these things can’t be forgiven.
And all the times leading up to now just fade into a mottled background of going nowhere at all. Oh, yes, well that’s fair. But what exactly happened leading up until here?

Bright lights. Another shot. Take a hit and pass it round. Sway to bass from speakers louder than blood in your ears. A rising memory of somewhere south of here. A drink in hand, swaying, wanting something I’ll never get more than what I have, had, know how to get.

One more second before complete blackout.
I can’t see straight. I can’t see the walls or the road. I can’t see you, at all.
I had a key, an answer, the way out — but that’s long lost on a bench somewhere back there.

Blind off my ass, I still manage to walk my two-wheeled deer home. If nothing else, this spirit of metal and grease loves me. Fuck flimsy flesh and blood. I need the inorganic resources right now. Hard and cold, I can lean on them when I fall. Crack my bones and break my head. But at least I know where we stand.

I wake in the morning and there’s sweat and steam between the sheets. There’s nothing like what I’m looking for. Only what I’ve got. Sleeping bags and statues in the other room. A dream I wish I would have chased. No flesh and blood responds to me.

But, the burning of the sun so far away its merely a speck in the sky beckons me come — come — come. Get up right now and move on. And so, I do.
But out in post-solstice cold: forgiving the monster before the machine is the hardest part of all.

I don’t have a lot of compassion to pass around. It’s very thin on the ground. Get in line and see what gets handed out. Consumerism and addiction is free today. Come have your piece of the pie.

Not as bad as it seemed–

Keys lost. Sobriety not so much happening as creeping in like a cold breeze through the cracks in the door, like unwanted light rising and reflected off every possible white surface in existenece. Twisted blankets and sheets and I don’t know how we got tangled in that position with pillows all askew, but the outside world is beckoning to me now.

Find the keys — calls reality.

Snow on every roof top and yard. Fluffy cotton tuffs tumbling from high-up white clouds. Two bikes that mysteriously appeared, and your helmets left out in the white powder. If you bring them in now, that will quickly turn to water. You’ll be drenched. You do because what else is there?

Inside, a single key is the only thing left. Pass it across. Now don’t lose it, or you’ll never get that vehicular mode of escape free.

You step down stone steps and out into the muddled wonderland. A growing disaster as the blood pressure kicks up agony inside your dusty head. Walking through this frigid landscape where the footprints of others are the only evidences that you aren’t entirely alone. An outlier’s road to go, for sure.

Forgive me, forgive me, please god forgive me — little notes and apologies, little make-amends to those who’s amends you inadvertantly tattered. At least, in the keyless dawn, you feel you must make recompense.

Instead, a cup of coffee and Tubbs doesn’t open until 3 PM so maybe, god maybe you can lay down.
You drink three, four, five down and shiver, shiver, shake until you can’t take it any longer. Friends make jokes and laughter fills the space of regret because, in this, you are not alone.

The power of commonality is strong within us. The power of loneliness — debilitating.
I was, in the morning hours, rehabilitated.

Food and slow evidences of the night that passed before with you so unawares. Remember now? Your friend sat in that tire there, and the snow prints say it must have been falling even then. Tracks along the way you went were you or someone else going this way. The effect feels the same — tracking through the past. Crows feet and cat tracks and a dog, a rabbit, a deer?

Well, you never practiced, so what do you know? That a crow came this way and flew away.
That everything meanders in the cold like you do.
That you are surrounded by a world of cause and effect, action and recall, imprint and ghost.

Across this tiny town, a ghost lies in my bed. Ghost notes scattered like love letters across the room. Pieces of stories my mind can addle together from others tales and shook-up bits of whatever is left inside of this head.

It’s not much but you will walk me through the hours as they passed. I’ll recall one, two things. I was so goddamn worried about you — and here it was me who was scattering the glitter about. For the first time.

Funny how the subconscious doesn’t exactly account for this.

I wonder who’s still asleep, thinking sobriety can be escaped.
I wonder who’s awake sitting with this bizzare unattached regret.
I wonder who’s perfectly at peace.

I am smiling through white-noised recollections and trying not to worry.

Keys became a metaphor for the whole thing.
And in the end: found. Tucked where they belonged in my back pocket as I ride through the snow that has become rain, drizzling down the back of my neck and soaking into my hands. I’ve only got another few minutes to ride until I crash.

Sleep take me.


A monster is slowly settling into the empty cavities inside my chest. It comes in the forms of violence and regret, of wondering what might have happened had we all made different decisions. In a million different universes, those possibilities are currently being played out. At the moment, we only get this one brief glimpse.

A string of actions that we perceive lead up to certain events. Moments culminate in movements of arcs of our lives. But in the end, only the moments — brief and instantanous — actually exist.

Moments like being drenched in a sudden downpour on the wrong side of the river. Moments like standing stalk still in the middle of the night staring up at the full moon blotted with hole-punched clouds. Moments like hand in hand on an autumn night seven years ago as a train passed, loud and close. Moments gone like sand in a sharp wind cutting cold across my face.

I wonder how this life would have changed had one of the seemingly simpler aspects of an inane action — like playing a jack instead of a spade — could have altered the entire projection of a life. A slight breeze to the west instead of the east. A red shirt instead of black. Raincoat instead of gloves. Minute little changes and substitutions that could create vast differences in our outlooks and positions.

If I had gone back one step and turned, would I have seen the picture differently entirely? Would the shapes have coalesced inside my head in such a way as to form completely new images.

I thought, tonight, for the first time of a moment where this minor alteration could have been indescribeably useful. I won’t express which one it was. I’ll keep it close to my chest where the lightning is.

You can, if you get dare get close enough, lean in and hear the thunder sound. But, be warned. You’ll feel no warmth. It only glows ever so tiny on the inside. And water comes up from somewhere to feed these plants, to store their succulent limbs and plump, bloated stomachs. But from where? I don’t exactly care.

I have things to do.
Watch the thorns and pokers. They’ll get to you.


The shortest day. The longest night. The darkness has been holding the tongue fast during this frozen over hold-out. I’m just holding on. You’re just hanging on. We’re just scattering, tattering, unraveling.

A spark is as good as the sun in the winterlands. And a shot is as good as a hope in the hinterlands. And a trap is worth building to catch the things you know you need to survive.

I’m laying traps and hanging snares and tying ropes that’ll eventually trip something up. Some unfortunate life beating with blood and heat. I’ll split some out onto my hands to take the numbness away.

Is this how we were meant to live?

Oh, but meant is a complicated term. Let’s take a gander through the lexicon of language shall we. Only there do we find the complex revelries into those deeper meanings behing misunderstandings we homo sapiens seem to find so all-important.

At any rate, it’s a little bit warmer out, and what with the solstice coming — there’s no question that another dark shadow has, at least in theory, passed.

On Saturday, I light a candle for my soul. And if it amounts to anything at all, I’ll light one for you, as well.

Entirely prepared to die

We can’t dance and skirt round the edges of this fire forever. The flames have been, for indescribeable amounts of time, licking away at our hairs and faces, chapping our skin and making us easy to crack, to cave, to break and scatter trace amounts of our blood about.

We thought, for a while: well, that was alright. But slow it is that we see reality. And the broken scars have never healed but have become scabs frozen in bad blood with infection rooted somewhere underneath. It’s come time to tear off the soaked and stuck on bandages, to get at the core of the damage.

I don’t think we ever get used to loss, but we learn that it comes around every so often. We never accept change, but learn we must to bow and bend to it. Never do we exactly rejoice in death, but learn that it will steal our breath, eventually.

My brow is bowing down. My boughs growing weak under the frozen droplets of icy rain layered atop my peak. My sap is all stored up in my core and my leaves have fallen, dried and dead, and exposed all my inner bones.

This is nothing new but the space in which it comes, of course, is a different one. A different safety to release. A different set of rules to escape. A different list of lines to cross out or avoid. A different road to another lonesome high place. From which, I’m sure, I’ll come into this valley once again — but at a different time and with a different face — in a whole new way.

Right now, reality is at the brink and I, arms spread wide, am ready to fall.
The pool below, I know, is not concrete and stone. Only the whole surface is sealed up tight with a layer of thin and jagged ice. I’m sure I’ll break through alright.

Hand in hand we can go, if you can’t go alone.
Just know that at the bottom, we let go.

One. Two..three…
Let’s go–

Tracking back

In the frigid air where run-off was stopped cold in its tracks halfway down a drain, I stand out frozen still. Fogged breath to the air, moonlight tangling the ends of my hair, and beside me there is this vacant space there. But I can still feel the warmth from it’s passing ghost.

Tracks through seasons and years I’m retracing, fingers against woodgrain, against the window frame, against lips and holding all those hard-pressed words in.

Onions make me cry, but so does the winter cold tonight.
Goggles could have, if I had planned well, protected my overly sensitive eyes.
I’m tracing tire tracks in ice that was weeks ago frozen over, but I’m trying, trying, trying to find you out here under this clouded over florescent lit sky.

Inside, tomorrow, and yesterday there was/will be work to do. I’ve got a schedule we can try to follow if you think we’ll hold tack to the line. Probably fall out a few times. But hey, what the hell, it’s worth a try.

Nothing feels as complicated as picking where, exactly, to begin.
We’ve picked our way across the road and the forest floor and the needles, moss, and fallen hair collected there. In the autumn colors, we found some kind of respite from all that. Or perhaps it was in the sea salt air that felt, suspiciously, fresh. But the staleness had been rising from the inside and how could we know but to wait for it to grow?

I’m reaching arms stretched wide across the table of universes to reach another hand — but I come up empty, hollow, sad. I can’t explain it. I’m dragging feet. I’m a ribcage of once trusted protection all shattered now to bits.

You’ve got a crossbow and a good eye, decent aim, a bracered arm braced against the wind.
I’ve got a bright red target on my head and chest.
Your choice which one you choose to try and hit.

I bet I’ll fall even if you miss.

And where the track we’d traced upwards to the sun goes from there, oh well who knows?


The public self wants a private thought, a moment of solitude, a second to just for god’s sake be alone. The isolated self wants to be comforted by the presences of others, by loving words and gentle gestures, by expressions of hope and cheer.

Naturally, these things are impossible. Not only so, but inherantly they go against the definitions of the very things themselves. They contradict on a purely basic level. They cannot, for the sake of their nature, be satisfied.

And yet, the inability to satiate these ridiculous cravings leave me with such a depression in my rib cage. Such a cold, frozen over shallow in my heart, such an endless hollowed out pit in my gut. I can neither rise up out of it nor shatter it like the thin, fragile glass it must — from logic’s standpoint — be.

Logic stands in as a poor substitute against the powers of this mild insanity.

And then, I begin to wonder: is this maddness the results of the age merely closing its clammy hand round my brainstem? Is this contradictory unfillable longing the effects of the ills we have collectively caused? Is this corroding hopelessness the same others aimlessly, unsolvably feel? Am I not alone only in my desperate inconsolibility? Is this the consciousness we have inadvertantly but jointly designed?

Tremors and tumors and a lifelong road of blank nothing confronts me like a road through snow from nowhere into nothings’ expanse. Like a sheet of ice on and on and on. A frozen life force. A dead sun. Stars too far in the past to offer any solace at all.

The irony is the ice around us is vastly vanishing, and we — in our stupidity — rejoice.
Don’t we know?

The never-been-alive, dead wind is starting to stir against us. Soon, the blackouts will stretch on and on. Trapped inside the warbling nonesense of our undercurrents, we each individually will all blather and flail until starvation in all its forms wipes each one of us out.

I wonder if even those trying to scale the walls will, in the end, stand a chance.
Is evolution so slow that we can hope to morph and bend out of it? Can adaptation be determinately chartered if we consciously try?

Or is all that lost to scientists already dead? Are we already breathing in the poisons that will kill our children’s children and stop reproduction dead in its tracks?

We already hold the doomed answer in our hands, but it burns with how cold it is.
Hurry, let’s close our eyes and wish away the ills we cannot outpace.
Pray a silent prayer and hope something still alive can hear.

Is this edge of nowhere enlightenment? And if so, is it what drags me down?

If ignorance was bliss, then the knowledge of having no escape was a kind of bliss all its own. A unique sort of reckless abandon that could be, in the final moments, be tapped into.

Do you have your drill and spicket at the ready?
We are about to bleed this sap out.
Get a bucket. Stand steady.

Bluster blows over what was once a pool of water

Water has taken solid shapes, maintaining through sun and moonlight both, the same crystaline patterns for days now. Wind whips any warmth away you’ve tried to squirrel up like loose change or lint in back pockets or in between half-numb toes. The tricksy fingers of winter are relentless snatchers, pickpocketing all the extra heat the bends of your knees and elbows and your hair folicles had some ill-made plans to secure.

Sunlight, ever near, is hard to come out into. Blink and freeze. Frozen eyes and chapped, rose-red, blood-licked lips. The inside of your mouth is becoming one of those semi-permanent crystal shapes but the breath on the edge of your nose — 98 degrees — is the only thing that keeps the hairs from snapping like ice icles from the inside of your nostrils.

Three things keep you warm and dry: hot beverages made from plants long dead, music melancholy as you feel, and fiction. A pair of maroon colored over-big trousers warm your legs in the interior of this mysteriously built house while the mug warms the crook of your leg and foot.

Folded up like origami in a chair beside the place where fire burns. A secret fire burns of treasured plans and far-off springtime images, and the quickly coming darkness of the shortest day out of 365.24.

Wind and ice and cold. Warm monthly blood caught up between your legs. And a half remembered mug of coffee. All these strange dead-season treasures remind you, headache and bones ache and tummy ache side of things, why you don’t want to go out today.

So settle in and get some various kinds of other work done. All these deathly things, eventually, will pass. Enjoy what there is to have. And as you drink this — think of me.