He comes to the store for one percent. Kids need cereal in the morning.

Parking lot is a graveyard and he walks it alone.

Morning talk show questions the legitimacy of a celebrity’s child, who gives a shit?

Thick fog clouds the roads ahead and the ones in the rear-view.

An absent car in the driveway and a bed left vacant.

 

 

The train moves one cart at a time pulling each other like brothers and sisters into an arcade.

Heavy flowing water carries boats from side to side creating ripples in the water. Throwing aluminum cans out a window into an open can creates ripples. Wild nosy birds scavenging for their next meal only to find a can encased over a captured beak.

The bird panics fly’s into the sky weighed by regret and aluminum. Soaring over the kids in the arcade fleeing from ripples

warm belly and dreamy sleep. Taco’s win the battle of the night and suffocate me in a pillow case.

Pale fluffy clouds float through jumping sheep and unfinished stories. Green Roses dance with Rubies to Tiny Dancer. Alex and Leo stand in the corner waiting for the pen to arise again and finish their tale.

The shriek from the broken windowed hall over a dead body echos through the dark room.

Joker laughs this way without a pale face.

Ruby plays and dances the night into endless night conversations while the Phoenix closes for the night hoping for remembrance. Vibrates through Taco meat and onto the dull carpet forgotten.

Love stands time, yet, only with a working clock.

The boat floats across a river of boiling unclear contents.

Shrieks echo from the walls and shakes the liquid below.

Steel rocks back and forth from the waves omitting from the center of the lake.

Reasoning to unshaken monsters for mercy from the mother.

Pulling closer into the swirls of blood into the belly of the beast.

 

Forcing blazing blue eyes across the green-blue waters into rising moon.

The crescent moon floats across the silent water in the end of June.

Crackling flames crushing old logs cooking the moon above is the only tune.

Smoke darkens the water and rises towards the moon as it will be gone soon.

Cold sand under bare thighs and fills a ten gallon hat as the gentlemen whistles away the night before high noon.

Crawling across weakened earth to the dreamy oasis. Veins bulging venom olive and dripping from cracked lips. Unresponsive, moving ghost fingers across bubbles foaming from your mouth. Dunes escape and replaced by blinding white sands.

Middle of death and life sits me. Wondering through open doors wishing they were closed and falling into a routine of pointlessness.

Than cue the purpose. The X to my Y. Pointless converts into a dream, a dream of white fences and Sunday crosswords, lazy Sunday with a dog named Buster and watching Friends reruns. Only if this dream is a dream for two.

Walking the cold night, looking into the moon’s eyes and begging for guidance. Impossible to find something that you’ve already found and lost.

You can see the hills from my house. The view is magnificent. Winds blowing through unpredictable locks with no keys in sight. Creations of our own ruling a better world we have created. Life with just you is all I ever wanted, yet, clouds have all your attention. Snow covers the beauty underneath that I’ve seen before.

I could see the hills from my house. The sun off the cliff side speaks fluent me. Heart melts around the summer nights here laying tears around crust where the mountain usually is. The mountain chases the moon searching for the new. Floating towards the black sky further and further from the sun and lock.

The mountain isn’t there anymore. Chasing clouds and life under the moon is where the mountain is. Snow doubles, hiding the truth like a hidden ruby. The key lays where the mountain and heart use to be.

​The mask is off.

Blank faces rest on weak shoulders and false masculinity.

Sweat pours from strong brows and strong cheek bones too thin jaw lines.

Eyes wondered through, judging silently, to there own appreciation.

The mask is on. The crowd falls in silently to do their bidding and work of drones.

Quietly escorted through the bowels of the beast never questioning the mask.

Spilt in half. The needle weaving in and out of weak thread pulling apart the remains of my heart. Needle jabs the fractured remains of my brusied heart lacing it together like fresh Nike’s.