A Journal from the last day on earth 20,000 leagues deep

I get
lost in the sound
of sleeping landscapes
no nearer to the world on either side
compass mystery spiral
leads a wandering soul
into the clearing.

Tired and worn hands
build fires to warm beds
below drifting cloud citadels
and aurora figures
moving from the darkness
into the light

The sirens of the deep
envelope the cast iron man
breathing a long kiss
into the air tubes
that keep a tired man moving on.

A witness of restlessness
body convolutions
die back to deep relaxation
in the sense of giving in
to the temptation
or the euphoria of knowing
youre going to die.

a stack of scribbled books
tomes pictorially describing how
a feeling felt when caring
counted as a unconditional feeling
instead of a gesture of human decency.

To be human in the dark
takes a thick skin
and a breathing apparatus
to maybe make it to the end
or fail and stand between two worlds
always looking in.

Funeral rites
by soft lamp lights
in the early evenings
of the dying summer.
the cold approaches
with the last fireflies
of the fleeting year.

The finger hold
on this flip-book life
tapers toward the edges
speeding the flow of time.
we progress from drop of molasses
to a grease fire.

out of control thoughts
contained in caved in hands
holding my cranium together
like a G.I. holding a foot to the promise of a landmine
with no friends to recover the glory
its just you all over the room.
collecting yourself would be a life long effort

The easy way
is to fill your mouth
with cement and shut the fuck up
when you constantly trample over sleeping bodies
like speed bumps you do off your car dash
before your soul vacates the passenger seat
and leaves you in a pile of your own imploding heart.

I would be angry at the cards i was dealt
if i gave a fuck about winning the game
but I just sit back
and watch everyone go for the throat
leaving a mess
I wont have to clean up.

Theres never any blood or shit on my hands
just lead from rewritten destiny.

R.I.P Dad.

The Visionary

I dream of life
in the spotlight
dressed nice
sipping mojitos
throwing dice
to the sounds of stirred ice
in empty glasses.

Taking trips across the world
meeting girls who dont give a fuck
about me
just as much as i dont give a fuck about them.
tongue painting the sillouette of an hourglass demon
with expensive tastes
and a soul that died a long time ago.
so i dont have to feel bad
about leaving a post-it note
by the telephone

Wearing ties
to drive fast cars
down the coast
to ride bikes through the city
with joint roaches
twisting in a south eastern breeze

Fireflies ride the fog
from the foothills to the beach
setting a mood
like god showed up for wine and a conversation
smoking a cigarette talking about how real we are
if anything
dying doesnt scare you.
because youve done it before.

The sound of spanish guitars
in the distance of the
resident inn's
throwing rocks out the windows
because i trust them
as far as i can throw them
and i can i throw farther than i expected.

all the days of my life
There's a perforated figure with a shirt that reads
"Wish you were here"
long and lonely days
with journeys that end
in churches
praying for forgiveness
with gods blood
still floating in an empty stomach.

Everything grows fuzzy
and the world is distorted

--
How our kids would have looked.


Im thankful for my imagination
and a brother who loves me.

The Restless

Ive been gone for a while and I apologize.
Things arent always as great as they should be but im back.


--

You used to have a mirror
you could talk to
til you were blue in the face
and your soul was at peace
laughing over spilt drinks
hugging the moon hoping
it would stay just a little longer.

Your arms snap at the joints.
Its been a long time since you felt
what you've been searching for.
The glow of the night
lost its way
to your tired eyes
and the feeling of being someones legend
has died down with the howl
of the endless river of beers
you drowned yourself in.

The bones stacked against the wall
with a blank expression piercing
the black uncomfortable atmosphere
touching keys
to express a degree
of loneliness that makes you sick
to know you're your own arch enemy.

To kill this stories hero
one hand
washes the other
and the dialog echo back
from characters
you opened all sanctuary doors
to visit spirit to spirit.

drinking spirits
feeling the sheeps skin
drape over your cold shoulders
you confess things you
normally leave for the ghost.
you dont care if they eat you alive
and they probably will
because tonight is the last night
you seek council with another breathing soul

im tired of being aware.