littered enterprise
dangerous dump highway twelve
bishops take your queen
Tag: Depression
fading
loose colors
twisting the ends
slapping the packet against tired wrist
i can feel
the end
grasping against air
pressed against my throat
inching forward
bloody nails held vacant
wasp fingernails to the hive
only one queen
taking instead of leaving
blaming me for it all
seeking instead of hiding
and i’ll be
long after i pass
leap leap
jump jump
let the past be past
jump jump
the slam behind
is the closet for the nines
fines build
lines fluid
jump jump
the rope
jump jump
the broom
jump higher
higher flyer
on a billboard
off the closest exit
in the old closet
jump jump
the old days
or crash
the falling isn’t the worst part
it’s the moment right before
you land;
it’s here in a blink
while the other eye
is idle
v1 passion v2
dream chasing;
not to be confused by having-
the purity of the air
is the difference between the chase,
the stamp of this art,
the corner carved on this medium
to last, to make a tiny smile – last.
the closer to the earth
the field is littered with bodies
looking for a scrap of metal
the same metal
ambition of bones
stealing a penny from lenny
never for the many
just to save a twenty
traffic
you let them all go
into a vast opening
into a world yet explored
blue as the river once was
garbage seeped into my lap through a tunnel built by you
grease still dripping from your neck
without a flag
a path
traffic here
is awful
paddle boat
worry rocked the boat
sent lifeless butterfly stroke
to the bottom of the creak;
sleep sleep sleep
little baby
rockaway
trot away
fuck away
little far away down the stream
lifeless cocoon
and an oar.
mamba out
i remember the first couple games
you were just an ordinary man
ball in the hoop day in night out
than you turned into a legend
eight to twenty four an all star was born
five rings later a legend
four kids later a man
crash later a god.
i can trace my love of sports to you
the evolution of competition
battle through it
come out a little stronger
the mamba mentality
never quit.
RIP,
1-800-555-2457
the static channel is louder today,
the musty recliner sinks deeper,
a socked foot blocks the left most side of the hushing screen,
the channel changes the static turns to picture
of a woman
selling pans
her golden curled hair flowed as she walked back and forth
just under was the number 18005552457
stainless steel and a non stick surface for a premium cooking experience
for three payments of 19.99 you can have this pan today
but if you act fast you can-
the static channel claimed her back into a loud shh,
the toe dissapears from the screen
a dial tone matches the static.
Saint's Muse 