Dying so slowly they think they're alive.

I can't imagine a word that
means anything close to what I'm
imagining.

Utopia to some, post apocalypse to many.
I had to describe how someone can exist
and cherish a person,
but hope to annihilate their species.

"Imagine someone hands you a glass of water.
You imagine they mix tap water with something filtered,
still drinkable right?
Imagine they mixed in poison, or waste.
Would you still drink?"

Love me like a kettle,
like a sea of consequences
like a brick in
your glass house.

She is a dreamer,
who breathes through
her skin,
and lives
with her regrets on her sleeve;
boldly.

We dreamt we were mountains,
and put our heroes on our backs
because we couldn't bear
not to look up to them.

We make peace with closed fists
and sing poems to our children
about war;

“It only happens once in a while.”

We spray everything red and cry in our hands,
we crush our heads in our palms.
Shake tambourines for spare change,
and claw at untuned unfinished guitars.

Daylight fades, and darkness stumbles in,
alcohol on its breath,
a mix only sailors and their widows drink.
It’s harassing someone for a **** or a fight,
because it longs to be touched and feel it,
to shed some ****** fluid
and feel drained of the pressure
of desperation.

So we continue our bastardization
of everything beautiful
and praise ourselves
for creating unnatural symmetry;
undynamic, sterile,
processed.

A running theme is that mankind,
we think we're special really.
Life is rare, but not phenomenal.
We are just as we are made;
unfortunate accidents
conceived in circumstance,
heat and pressure.

We are not miracles, we're mutants

formed out of the trash left unattended
by a thoughtless and lazy reality;
Reflecting nothing, like the waste we create.

It's useless.

Also, I am useless to describe
any situation where
I get out okay.
I want to take the blue line to
somewhere new and mysterious,
and try to fathom life
beyond,
"Giant Steps?"

No, that was John Coltrane.
"..."
That was John Cage,
and somewhere we roll in our graves
because the best references are lost
and the best ideas, spoiled,
and the greatest thing
about it is

who we've wasted it on.

Can't get closer to the floor now,
you should have fibbed;
You're so good at it.

****** it up and drew the strings together
lost the strings, fell, fell five stories,
fell through all your stories,
felt light like a feather
with a stomach lined with lead.

You're a mess again,
and you sleep in clouds
and sleep soundly all the while
a little voice in your head
wonders how.

Something disgusting
like a mutual friend,
or the feeling of
drinking
dishwater.

Aspirin like breath mints,
the blood feels liberated
inside the vein.

What the head puts to waste
sleep feeds on like a starving cannibal.
Everything that matters is
lost in the minutia.