blood rush in the atmosphere, there’s a saturation
of deep red’s depending on our hands to touch
so maybe our veins might grow into each other
we could hold onto the red lines when our friends
are talking about gravity but we’re on the cosmos
everything would be
blood red to us
we are barely above the sea surface, like water waves
always pushing, never pulling back I don’t think my mind could wrap
around you these days, but I’de still try to get inside your head
the veins in our arms might grow like fire but the songs in our mouths
went up like smoke, deeper, deeper into dead ears
scrap my knees but don’t cut the strings between our hands
A bear walks into a bar
except that didn’t happen what business would a bear have in a bar, bears don’t belong in bars that is just absurd
you are my favorite pair of scissors I always seem to lose
I have a heart shape on each knee for all the times
I crawled through the excuses I made
to not leave my bed in the mornings
and sunburns on my lips for the month
I gave up sleep for sunny days
There’s something about that silent space
that rests in cold mornings and the empty kitchen chair
where you used to live, I met a lady like wildfire
she shared the lines of your mouth almost
sad completely violent, but not your eyes
where all the silent pieces would gather
if only I could tie the pieces together
we’d work out the knot together
maybe then I’de still remember
which side of the room was yours
we’re more than sidewalk charity cases
and library smokers, even they
have yellow pages and cracks to follow
I’de follow if I could, the lines in the road
where I’de buy into the hope
of being led by a misguided stream
of fate but even that has an end
we’re all made to bend at least
so why not bend a bit
towards me
the only inspiration I have
is the hole in the ceiling
worn away by all the days
I spent with my back
to the floor
I’de show you all the lines in my hands
maps for all the mornings I made you breakfast
a crease for every time I chased after a muse
that only exists in sleepy eyes
and sunny windows
We are houses built for neighborhoods
ugly pretty structures, who don’t know our neighbors
because these hands don’t quite reach
if only our arms were tree trunks
we could grow into them quietly like ghosts
we are houses built slightly crooked
crooked, until our bricks fall out
and our windows crack
we’ll go up in tangled ribbons of dust
and smoke like cigarettes
we are houses for ghosts
you are everything and I am nothing
I get asked a lot if what I’m doing makes me happy. If where I’m going and who I am makes me happy. And most of the time I find this completely irrelevant. I suppose there’s way more to all this than pursuing “happy”. Let me be unhappy for awhile. Let me feel it all. I think real happiness is a state of mind. And we won’t get there by chasing after our own emotions and well being.
