It's not really finished ...

But I wanted to put something up.

Also, absolutely none of this is about suicide. No worries. Thankyouthatisall.

__________________________

It's too much at once, all too much at once,

I move a grain of salt and it's like

the moon moves closer and

oceans rise we can't believe

our eyes

deceive us, you see; I'm sorry.

Are there craters in grains of salt?

Are there men and faces and American flags and rabbits with

mortars I didn't order this.

Turns out you can't (apparently) just throw salt over your shoulder

when you're really throwing boulders,

they crash and burn and smolder

I'm sorry my breath makes the wind colder

sometimes,

we're all getting older

(... sometimes)

we've spent

some times

badly timed, fingertips to spines, guilt tastes salty

tonight

the moon, too close, casts faulty

waves -- expanding, demanding too much at once

just too much of us

I mean I think so anyway.

No, broken strings won't sound,

But I know I've written songs with and without them

And you know we gotta write our songs

Even if we're forced to shout them

Or whisper them to the moon,

Even if it's out of tune

It doesn't matter

We scatter grains of salt every day by the millions

I'd splatter my brains all over the chalkboards if I knew I'd never hurt anyone

Again.

You'd be pretty tired of it too, by the way,

less inspired by it too, by the way,

if you'd heard this same damn

heartbeat

playing on

repeat

since the day you were born it's

nothing new and I know you feel this too because

we find ways to dance,

like it or not,

when we only have one chance,

period.

Too much all at once, I'll shed salty tears for you and

hope I start to see the craters in them and

either way we'll both keep writing our songs

regardless of broken strings.

New one, post-Snarky Puppy

Nov. 22, 2009

The street sweepers scuffle like beetles, smiling-up the road in this sad-faced,

cloudy-eyed, crinkle-skinned little town.

I am outside and inside, outside and inside,

and shoveling snow in both places, feeling around in the dark, arms out like antennae, trying to learn my many faces, and, hark--

my house is a stuttering stumbling-ring,

filled with muttering mumbling things--

here is a vase, I hold it in my vice-grip,

want to fly to space, but afraid that I might trip.

So if I lie down in the street I'll be street-swept away,

the vases bookcases bed sheets just drop away,

let the beetles in my house up and carry me away,

catapult me via snowshovel into

outer space,

zero-gravity,

stars pitter-pattering--

the only real surround-sound.

(my brother,)

When we were very little you used to tell me how much you loved those dreams where you're being chased by something scary, and then you just fly away. I never had those dreams, and yet I always knew exactly what you were talking about.

A new one, from right now

I like it, and hopefully so will you.

I don't understand it, and hopefully you won't either.

_____________

Eventually we were naked. For some reason I couldn't see you, or your body. Your skin was milky and cool and quiet, the way trees are cool and quiet, seemingly asleep or dead, but undeniably and explosively alive.

We took turns sprinting and laying down, with our bodies and with our eyes, we looked around:

no garden, but plenty of flowers. No flaming sword either, but plenty of thorns.

I couldn't see you, so I never really knew where you were, although I always found you somehow in some place, the location of which I never knew, not that I could see you anyway.

Sometimes I just gave up looking, which usually was when you found me, olly olly oxen free. We laughed a lot, though we never followed through with the whole catching a tiger by its toe plan, and paper hadn't been invented yet, much less scissors, so we just held our fists out at each other until we decided who was it.

And I always desperately wanted to hold you up on my shoulders, but I was always too afraid to say it.

And just between you and me, I miss those days.

You're damn right it rhymes

Sneaking suspicions snuck up surreptitiously.

Shrieking at visions stuck up in this listless me.

Breaking and quaking and almsgiving earthshaking,

Lonely apparitions plucked up from their homes in me.

Trust when it busts, the spinning Earth's crust, that is,

That spirits won't rust and grinning through the dust forgive.

Planning escapes, oh the messes we've made,

We'll do what we must, thinning through gusts of wind.

Notes left on tables, sort through the fables, dear,

Motes crossed on cables, in short all the stables clear

Out right in seconds, sprout flight I reckon

The boats all decradled, we're all Cains and Abels here.

I'm wincing volumes upon volumes,

And today you noticed the little things.

I wish I could have finished this

But the weird abstract feelings that fueled it disappeared, and probably will never return again.

April 9, 2009

Notes left under your windshield wiper, text messages from unknown numbers; you'd rather not know who they're from you kind of like the mysterious beauty of not knowing, you like thinking maybe they're from God. Smiling up at you, buttoning all your jacket buttons which kind of bothers you but you don't care, she smiles, like she has a secret but not in that "I know something you don't know" kind of way it's more like she wants to share it with you. For once. She's the first one where it's felt that way.

You had begun to lose interest in romantic love, the whispers and kisses cheesiness and you had begun to be bored with hearing things about how it's "beautiful" and NOT cheesy and then all of a sudden she's smiling up at you and buttoning your goddamn buttons again which really kind of gets to you and she knows that but she's the only one where you actually get the joke as she elbows you in the side. And it's not really full of whispers and all that cheesiness and kisses and "fiery feelings" and like impassioned sex and that's really quite refreshing. It's really more full of half-full cups of cold coffee and laundry and bad jokes and overcast skies and feeling stale and bored.

Maybe someone will relate to this?

Things have changed. That's like always something you can say for sure. But still, no one's ever in their office, and these dishes still never get fucking clean. Ever. Where do things go, besides away? Nothings for certain, ever for certain, looks like you'll basically be cleaning dishes for the rest of your life, and right now, right now you just need to _______.

Steal away for new faces; injustice. Look.

One of these days

The days you want to spend entirely within yourself. This is not a room; this is not a desk; this is not a book—this is your heart; this is your mind; this is your loneliness, your soothing and all-encompassing solitude. Others, for now, you'd rather leave alone.

And when someone unknowingly interrupts, what is there to do but invite them in? You are vexed at first, but then realize there is room for another. Come in, you say, pouring a second cup of coffee, I was just thinking about you.

One from just now

There were lights. There were lights here where we sang. There were lights here where we sang, huddled around the lamp-posts, caroling, cajoling, released without paroling, here together in our cautious hands-up new friendship. Here we are in parkas, hard-nosed and everywhere else; we don't take up enough of this panoramic picture we look like scenery compared to the streetlights, burning alone, broadcasting to us 'come and go as you please.' You've been here before.

Read aloud, as fast as you can

And I Said When He Burst Through My Door - Wednesday, JUNE 4^TH, 2008, 2:00 AM

People seep into each other they ooze and overflow and they try to mingle like my cigarette smoke with your incense smoke and they seem to sometimes make it, they sometimes get a shoulder into a hip or a knee into a forehead but god forbid they might coagulate and get stuck, so they pull out, and they jump up and shit shit shit did anything get in fuck I hope hope hope not why didn’t you pull out earlier? And seepage occurs sometimes when we burn and melt or go up in flames it takes that heat to get there you know you gotta get hot before you burn into smoke or liquefy I think that’s what it’s called something in chemistry but they have to you know get all hot and THEN seep into each other, there ain’t no multiple solid objects occupying the same space I mean that’s BASIC chemistry I think or physics or some shit but you catch my drift. I seep into you sometimes, like universes overflowing into each other, they all have different sets of rules but they overlap sometimes, you know, SEEP, we’re all molecules and that’s it, right, so we can slip in and out of each other, so that being said that being said I was just thinking right now, I really want to know just who the hell do you think you are, Loxley?

NO,

there is absolutely nothing "wrong" with you.

For Danika.

You are leaving tomorrow,

and fear is still an illusion.

Written August 23, 2009

Sing sing singing on my branch.

Moments float away, white blurs in our memory like doves, sweet hugs taste like nectar, intoxicate like liquor, especially when we look back on them, peek back at them, pressing our hands to the glass, like children in zoos.

I was so young, that sweet nectar on my tongue, reminds me. I'm getting older always, but never, not until I sever my branch from it's trunk, he said "History is bunk," Thelonious Monk continues to PLINK PLINK PLINK in that painting

I didn't take with me, I wish I had you with me, could have taken you with me, still I keep you in me,

always,

fall sideways on a bed that's too tall to fall on, are these the ones I'll call on when i need you?

But do I need you? I've planted seeds (in) you see, but I might not see the fruit, might not need the fruit, my memories are mute when I want them to return to me.

Sing sing singing on my branch, I want you but might not need you, dove (love?), perhaps I'll pull down my branch, even uproot my tree, and fly, or fall, like a blurry dove,

but in the other sweet-tasting direction.

That's my blog over there. No, no, the one on the other side.

Thanks for checking it out. I'll be posting some of my free-writes, etc., here. If you're REALLY my friend, then you'll check this page EVERY SINGLE DAY. Okay?

Really, I hope you enjoy this stuff. I AM NOT A WRITER. But I do enjoy writing, and I figured I'd share some stuff with my friends. And you don't have to check this at all.

I love you.