The End

wandered

vignettes presented themselves - each one 

another direction explored 

his hunger all but forgotten 

i cant tell you the meal finally served 

it would spoil the fun 

i thot i could wrap it - up in a bow - tie the loose ends - wat a fucking ego yah - put another dollar in the jukebox baby - inflation - it wuz tumblr - there was - coffee - imma re reblog the entirety - a kitty pile of poetry 

tumblr at its finest 

driver where you taking us…

Please do consider the invitation to leave a comment about your part -- put a penny in the slot. And yeah, a hijack would be more in the spirit of the thing.

Thanks to all who played, all who followed along, all who gave it a thought at all.

cups       are    filled                with

   knots.               from the mouth

pours        steam,     cloudy              and

feels good when it               sinks

       in,  driving a sky from             knots

-stirred      the wheel,                stirs

the cup.                 pours and

                pours,  she

spilling

Your feathers fall soundlessly across the floor as crimson blood trickles slowly from your creasing smile;

I catch your fall as gently as I could manage but my legs give, shaking as I see your amber skin turn ever so pale;

I can’t help but mourn how graceful your wings were, how torn they are now;

Death was a peace you never deserved, a hollow I could never let you endure;

I don’t hear the screams, the sirens, the police, the priest… all I can hear is your empty breath, a lasting torment in my ears, all I can feel is your loose grasp of my shoulder, a cruel reminder of how I’ll never feel it again, all I can think is how you never believed in priests anyway, how you’d want to be remembered…

How you don’t want to be remembered.

Misused Metaphors (via teacup13)

sleep is for the dead » ecm

@inanotherdirection collaboration

(via mjao7)

      The boat rocked dead against the wind.       Bridge and ballast both breathed as easily as her bloated bagpipes, burping whips and hawws between tightly zipped, amethyst lips into the scalding winter sleet pouring over the crumbling earth. Ticks and spittle, fashioned from tin and brittle teak, coated her coat and sloughed off in the torrents of her oily tears.        Coiling ears reached from the woods, knotted eyes blinking sap from charred and slaking bark, as the world around her burned to the rhythm of the rain.       Where has the time gone? Where is the clock when you actually feel like paying attention to it? Pickles have got nothing on this brine, she thought. Pearls are nothing to this swine.       Her laugh was almost manic with the panic of tantrum, ear drums bleeding seedlings dusted to dander over dandelions screaming cinders into the wind.       Mortar and mud moved as meaningfully as muriatic acid through the mineral-heavy mimicry of martyrdom fleshed out atop her cries for help, and the boat still rocked dead against the wind

      Her own snoring and snorting shoved her into the real world, heaving and whirling, soaring portly into the storm of waking life. She turned over on the bunk and spied his face, skeletal and broken across the room in the twilight of the cheap alarm clock flashing–

“12:00–12:00–12:00–12:01”

–and her sigh eddied, frothed and uncanny, into the nooks and crannies of the bookshelf and its sandy little timeshares, twiddling teaspoons into tonnage, whittling eternity into footprints on an alien shore. It echoed softly off the keys of the typewriter he bought in Sedona, and never used, sitting next to his laptop, still open to a page about a diner.       Sometimes she wonders if she’s just another dream he wrote about. Sometimes she wonders if that matters. Cicadas trilled across the dock.       The looping corkscrew of her dreams had finally uncorked something–something dry and bittersweet, chalky and haptic on the tongue.       Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever wake up. Sometimes she wonders if that matters.       She decided to simply dream on.

      The boat still rocked dead against the wind.

@inanotherdirection collab

“Look, I’m sorry, Maddie. I just…fuck, I just can’t come in today, okay?”

“Ben, you sound weird. What’s going on?”

He hung up and closed his eyes against the pain. He closed his eyes and didn’t think about why he was sprawled out, flat on his back, amid the devastation of his living room. He was so damn tired and everything hurt. 

Oddly enough, he thought about her hair. How stray pieces kept blowing across her eyes that day on the boat. Her, laughing as she brushed it out of her face. It wasn’t blonde or even gold; it was pure sunlight. She was happy then, wasn’t she? Or was that a lie too?

Then again, he really needed to spin himself out. To run down every rabbit hole that came in view. They don’t go away until he does. He knew this.

He stared down at his coffee gone cold.

“Back in the land of the living, darlin’?” the waitress asked smiling as she made her rounds with the last of the hour-old pot. Finally, a voice outside his head.

“Here. You look like you need this.” She poured the liquid inspiration as he tried to think of something in the real world for a change. “I’ll make some fresh and stop back”, she said. He couldn’t help but stare as she walked away.

That knot.

He watched it shift side to side ever so subtly, the ass-riding bow loops trying to steal the show.

A tense ball at the base of a smooth but steep incline. A wadded up lump that knew its place along the strings.

Not always the exact same spot, but within a range of possibilities that showed her body had found its sweet spot.

It could spring into being with its eyes closed.

And it was a reflection of what kind of day it was for her. Tensely tight-fisted screaming “Bring it on” or in-the-weeds loose; a firm grip on her waist or hanging on for dear life.

Today was in between. She was alone so she was chief cook and bottle-washer along with tending to her flock. But it was pouring outside again and she tried to comfort her herd huddled against the storm.

His eyes drifted back to his laptop. He opened the lid out of force of habit.

His words swam before him again as he felt himself falling back into the zone.

Something welcomed, Something feared, Something which awakens, Something which pains.

This is healing, And it radiates from within,

Turning broken Into beauty

My weakness Strengthened by Golden bands of Suffering

And when he sees Oh, When he sees

Objectification honing

Women in servitude

Soliloquy

Besmirching of my caliber

I fill cups and plates and comprise no unrealized dreams of yours nor mine

Not chemically nor physically to neutralize your caffeinated trances.

And I am not the Djal to your piety

You are the raging world majority glorifying your defeats simply by way of reminiscent scents and disproportionate precipitation.

Angles.

Angles.

Haven’t we been blessed?

I am martyring my own martyrdom

Defending any soul tethered to apron strings

Oh, if only you knew how nakedly I waft this aisle

Perhaps as you hollow your route

Should I serve you yet

I am honoring a sense of tact

While relentless humanity stares at my ass.

And a word of advice: if my ass-

sumptions burn

you haven’t an inkling

Of purpose

NEWSFLASH - frequent readerz know of my interest in infinity -quantum theory - and existential humor - not 2 mention my compulsive nature - mid poem - i actually am spending time writing and put it in drafts and let the coffee kick in - i was scrolling yahoo - and searching for the facts about caruso - and came across two math whizzes  who measured the sizes of infinities = all infinities are equal and thats no jest…

where wuz i - playing guitar - onstage - life no rewind - bad notes and all