There must be a way out.

Because one time,
there was just water.
There were
just molecules.

How they fit together so
anatomically.

And now
how can they divide
so promiscuously?

It's as if the door
has been sealed
with the visions of future.

It's as if
there was never
any way to be sure.

There can't be.

Beg, borrow, and steal.
There's many ways to conceal
the distorted image
life has shone
mystically.

This is all a mystery.
I don't know if audible waves
are what the ocean brings.

There are only things.

There are only those
who sting.

And for those that blindly sing,
there are only things.

wanting everything and
nothing
all together
and
unraveling entire
fabrics
by a single string.

how confusing
it is
to replace
dry, cracking knuckles
with magnifying glasses.

how soothing it is
to lean unseen
behind the masses.

these walls
might as well be mirrors.

there is no escape
from the cells
of the skin.

there's just a hope
that shedding
will provide
a way
to untangle the fabric.

wax-coated tables
sealed with stains of
vinegar, cheese
and questions from my father

what is his story

Behind every story
there is struggle
betwixt highlighted glory.

snowy hills,
mountain peaks,
laughter.

there was a drain
******* it all away
as if today was always
a black and white yesterday.

and so I brought red into the equation.
a knife-
bringing dormant veins
to life.

silence is the loudest
silence is the saddest
alone and dragged
unwillingly
down one-way streets

chemicals misfiring.
They don't understand
development of false wiring.

The blueprints had shined-
there were smiles in between the notes.
The eights were serotonin,
the wholes were adrenaline.

Silence still screamed.
When nothing speaks for years,
the crust rusts eyes
like the underside
of the old Ford
in dad's shop.

Beats,
kisses,
*****.

The rust spread north
as my extremities
fell to the ocean floor.

I fear I cannot float on
any longer.

Somewhere between
pills,
plastic,
a princess,
and polycentric support
was the epicenter.

It tasted like fudge
on a warm winter evening
by the fireplace.

The silence still screams-
I doubt it will ever cease.
But the secret is always knowing
that the sun still shines during sleep.

this is where he lies;
this is his story-
betwixt his struggle
love,
art,
and
invisibly,
blinding glory

alone.
I have no semblance of home.

There is nothing in
thickets
that covers
my disfiguration of a disposition.

I will lie
against the grain
and fight
for feigned love.

Nothing loves me
and I love nothing.

I am filing cabinets
infinitely.

I am faking smiles
ardently.

When the end comes
there will be teeth
separated from lips
genuinely.

I am bound by
two brick strings
and a
receipt
of red ink.

There is nothing
about the future that presents this.
Only that which has occurred
to a stomached stirred
preventing any glimpse of bliss.

I'm only calling
the names in the distance.

There's a shift of relevance
and it's delicate.

Those who can't record
the revolution
are too busy
lighting the rooftops
ablaze.

You once said,
sleep is for the weak
and I feel like Achilles
limping across the battleground of your
subconscious; eyes half shut
are eyes half open.
How long will it be
before I too drift into
the limbo of your nights
and forgotten
when you awake?