i missed some part

of growing up, where
you get sort of calloused too;
those things, when you're 23
that make the sun rise and fall
are supposed to weigh less
as you see more sun rises
and falls

nothing's really getting easier

I love my love with all I am, will
ever be

and still, or perhaps because
of that
and the always growing number of days risen and
falling
I'm scared

I am disposable.
Am I?

has the neversettled dulled the experience
is this how only to manage me after so long
am I nothing but a grindstone, wearing those closest
down
fastest

the fearlessness from nothing
to lose
is lost
I've got everything
to lose

All I need
I have

everything

ten years hence

and so little
progress has been made
but is no more than
tail chasing
a sickness unto

what ought and what
is
or was
or will be

ten years and still
late night listening
and hiding from the
outside
it's so noisy
without them

holding alight
this is what I am
have done
have become

so tired
of twirling the maybetruths
between the gaps we tumble
and I worry

I'll be forgotten

10, thirty, 50 years
hence
and you
there reading will know
the spirit bows
but never completely breaks
as neither does the body
this reality ever become

an ought.

our voices recede

into static
as does everything

the inevitable resting state
our movement fails to cease
we finally acquiesce to the natural state of things

entropy reigns where before intentions
intended some plan
or hope towards control

/@least

understanding something more
of why&
wherefore will i end
upside down and unknowing

just as ever
before
but feeling vague and unknown
fit
the smaller pieces as disjointed and shamblebodied
but necessarily so
uncertainty was necessity
in the face of false sureties

we jingled and jangled
stumbling, but honestly
and proudly

embracing doubt
as argument against someone else's
conclusions
all we knew
their way wasn't ours
even if we couldn't say
what our's
was

is now
nothing more than static
receding one pixel against a background
of billions more

Here, i am.

I have been, others
more often (than); myself
caught up in the chasing tales
they then, becoming truth
more so than ever I thought
(or wanted)

the running toward
space occupied formerly reserved for never
reaching
goals, transmuted to if--then
contingencies

nearly feeling
and not having
what alternative when process becomes
an end

(maybe) this is good;
fear shakes me
rattles loose that old
and alive
shamblebodied && word dancing
self, from another long
slumber

silly words, scratched

in time, all things fade
some in the sun
some elsewhere,
those elsewhere; fade to nothing more than memory

these fade to a sunbleached and goldtinged happiest
little curls of everyday
cherished


weatherworn and comfortable
standing selfsame and finally found
against the gale, in the surf


(I would bob up and down
below the water, I was gasping
for air that wasn't there
suffocating, strangling


those written pasts
are just that
and for fear of falling completely off
into an abyss in own mind
I wrote
not to remember, not to wish
not to speak truth
but to find the way
to put behind)


I'm working on
these words
scribbled in ones and zeds
they are new, written in short
left handed slashes and jabs
putting to paper the happiness
that I've never
been good enough
to turn to words
been good enough to deserve

tingling toes in a hot shower

Raining leaves and singing dogs
In between the silence
and beams of sunshine

Cascading shadows blowing
in the wind on this
Empty country roads
with no audience
only sleeping cows
and bow backed horses in the wind

Swept fields rolling like water waves
on a tide unsure whether to
come in or stay out

the moon hidden below that
great curving fire colored hillside
yet
and here I am only breathing
in deep heart beat thumping
in my ears sounds mixing with the
hum and crackle of tire on road
and whistles of wind through
stainless hoops

for a moment
I spoke
only once in what was
hours
I spoke
and all I could
utter
"This is perfect."

the latticework

Exposed, as sticky crumbling
bits of earth falling
And breathing air
Untasted since the foundation
laid as permanent
Through which the blood
Flows

As the little demons
Crawl into and out
Of this ragged and fresh
Gaps torn into our surface
Cold, damp air surrounds
& colder iron and terra cotta
Works to replace
What needed to be replaced?

In short time
the work done
and the sweet sticky
earth surrounds and is
Blanket covered so only looking
Directly
Can you see the scar

3114

All these things
have happened;
I still love.
-with a part of me that never
Ends

Was I a bad man
did this happen because I
held on too tight-
or not tight enough?

remembering the ache
I fell harder than thinking possible
Only could she do this.
feeling the warmth
I alighted and soared
Only she could do this

listening to her music
and with tears welling
I smile.

times were never perfect
two separate beating hearts are never
perfect
Except
those times
-and the world fades around
All is inky and inconsequential
the din of the city
roaring it's silent roar
at either end of the alley
an Exit
that neither of us
wanted to take
Then.

Pittsburgh

Through these streets
Rush hours lasting
Most of the day
Forgetting to look up
From our books
Or phones
or
The inside of so many
Eyelids shut
And keeping
Monologues internal,
To wonder
the narrative:
Hinting at something that must
Be more

These streets and
Buildings
Just as these people
Speaking-
A silent story
And I'm not sure which;
I want to know more

The plaster shadows
Cast high up on
Outside walls that once were
Inside
(or)
The shadows cast low
On a tired face
That once was beautiful-

both
as each has and tells
Silent stories
And each is
Beautiful
As its passage
Through time
is
wordless

this is not the end

There is only
One
When, as last out and
Turning them all
off

But lets not think
of these things
either good or
Otherwise

For the past is passed
even when most in mind
as if the jumping touches
and feeling those intertwined
limbs

it's hard though
to not miss
such little things
-ball point pen
heart tattoos
& stick men on islands

passing idle times with innocent
contact
without thought
just as it were my own