sometimes for no reason I feel so lucky to be alive
and I stared at them for maybe a few stops too long I think they think I’m creepy
if i’m falling, did I choose somewhere to jump?
maybe it was never behind you to begin with the sense of febrile completion.
distance and haze, all things fade mirages like those invisible puddles of water above a hot highway
you see one thing then bam! you don’t, nothing left but the cool ache suspicion that maybe it wasn’t better.
Car, truck, truck, bike, truck, car, me. One road, one way to get any number of final spots. That my here and yours don’t match isn’t a problem. Lie with me here then for the now, and promise the world will still be there
Politics. My own. Maybe yours, too. But that depends, see. On things. Like, well, maybe more than a few but definitely less than many. On the vastness of this state, this space carved of time. Or a little–even a moderate–ways away. Here, we may roam as gods. Gods full of limitations and death, little deaths. Lots of them. Why not more, cried the hungry. But it was not theirs to desire. It was, it is not theirs. It was mine, it is.
When, then, if about them as a god I decide to die, that my own desires beset upon the earth. And the trees will grow from my hairs, my ribs will become mountains as tall as the sun and moon. My blood will crash oceans deep upon shores of bone. New life can only come from old life, there is no creation yet without some former demise.
Needles and treetops bracketed noisily out of sight. Canoodle-in-the-afterlife, sticky flowers and a foreboding set of tenticular whispers. Mauve drapes wrapped in sky-blue flame, darkened braziers eat hungrily at the sun; handed down at the generations’ docks, wouldn’t you know? Flouncing assets in fungible cases dragged like bodies through lapis twilight. This biscuit ain’t no pouty bitch. She put a hundred dollar cloth there, just there this time against my left kidney. Unicorns fell maniacally through the reign of terrible burnt toast. Their impecuniousness was hardly softened by the faling Ipswitch sandwich. Faced with increasing blue turnstiles, the money made off with some floozy, goddam faggots purpled in the nook of time, hiding plain in the corner from all the croissant-eaters (who lovingly crushed apples to feed their addictions). Feeling there yet? Morose mongeese live, average, twice as long as the goofiest gophers. Buffoonery aside, the blood will swim my cake! Made up make up, it’s all imagined real to the most willing amnesiatic amanuensis; says nothing of the modern-day elocution motor. Such a champion of nails and grins. Pop in the oven, weasel guts and tea queen’s time bout right you are, failed expression in a twisted sea of hate. What I got you gave but giving it to the one getting who is now gone; elsewise who would have given any second-chances to the hour? Losers cannot be made more than once upon a time, permanent stockings were never that popular to begin with. “Later!”