if you mix musical notes strung out like black birds on a telephone wire with Lennon’s circular spectacles, or Paul’s clever use of the key of B, or Ben’s or K.D.’s dust bowl chords hailing from 1929, or Smith’s brilliance, or his storm cloud, drunken, garbled speech, my world blooms, bleeding a Technicolor independence day, marked by the ushering of outerspace, the quiet, cold, dark, breath of a memory that goes right through me, it rains inside but I am content. Living in an airless cell it serves as both my anchor and my alleyway. “In the safety of a pitch black mind” looking at life in frames holding pictures and silhouetted outlines I have left to connect the dots, follow the arrows, sketch the lines, write the words the end, a fond farewell to the continents, to all the oceans, to all the souls I would have loved to know, to the Georgia summer caught glowing in her eyes five years ago, to the Midwest’s only rose I tried to hold too close.
In a parking lot below an artificial light, there was a broken open vessel, an emerald ocean, somebody’s suicide; it is the concept of a rose. It scattered all the light, made the tarmac look like a midnight sky, incandescent constellations painting heaven here on earth, in the sully fountain of my guilt and shame, a projection of remedies, a 40 hour walk 4 years of stations of the cross, every one I'm grateful for, heard from a pulpit without a face our sorrow is piling up to turn tomorrow into a bryter day, I don’t know if I can show my face, my 5 year old wishes on a copper coin down the mouth of a morning, someone collects the light, spills out the belfry where the seraphim chime, you can climb up to the pinnacle of time, and slide back down, still the same, just older in appearance, and quieter inside.

I don’t know who I am trying to deceive, all the words and pages of text I put between you and me, just clouds my mind. I know where I'm supposed to go but I haven’t got the time, they told me I haven’t got the time. It is older inside.