only something worthwhile comes from nothing, that is why love in its true form is so beautiful. it requires the complete resignation of self of two people. a common conjugal goal is formed from the emptiness, from nothing

pent up on a lonely mountain i am waiting to fall, i remember what i am in the slow exhale. i wont tell you because someone has mona lisa eyes. i like purple in Bb and A. sometimes it feels smooth in baby blue, thats ok too. i am not afraid of the silence. i am afraid of not having anything to say. i see the same passing smile. i wave inside. i dont know if i like myself more than she does with eachother's eyes. its ok if i never know. i am going to say thank you tonight. then start admitting its my fault, then i'll be a brave man. miss misery, i am not sure if we did not hold hands that i would have ever walked the stairs and empty space between me and you, all that white noise raining down to settle out blue and black behind everything thats collapsing still the same. i'll love you anyway. but i want to share a cup of tears with my queen so we can redraw beauty in forgetting our names, thats what they say will keep the rain away the gray plumes inside of me and you bellowing through the holes in my ribs and the pores in my skin, please, save me if i save you. painting lonely mountains on the falling face of a passing smile.

global amnesia, compacted white snow, covered red--was the movement of a hand for a dear friend. i am glad to see go, yet farewells are more often bitter at least thats what i know. you can substitute the world for yourself but you can never have both starshine and midnight on a cloudy day. i am sitting on a blackbird line. discovering what i need to stay alive, or what will make me like myself in other peoples eyes. i shed my skin and bore out a hole in my chest, grow the teeth that are meant to only sink in, and become one with the machine. living like a ghost. i dont know where to stay ok.

Once by the ocean, blue and bold, swallowing sin floating cold in a picture, perched with a murder of crows I count my reasons, watch my holes as they grow swallowing all my hope and in that sunlight shoal, faint and fickle I'm running scared blind yet beautiful and unaware I'm still a child, cloudy eyes pregnant with rain, and the chemical smoke blocking my brain, makes me sad, really really, ,sad I never see it. I never saw it.

maybe i just want your attention today.

Jack sank back in the velvet-clothed chair sitting by the fireplace and started smoking his pipe sporadically mumbling aloud. “Which is better to be blissfully happy or somber, to entertain a solemn incantation bewitching me the gift of pen? I say the later let me find no light as to not divorce my avenue of escape, my quiet and quaint sojourn to a place where I make my own fate, wish me not to the world awake. Yet smile on me, Father. I do not exist, I faithfully insist, as it was once annunciated from the fiery lips of a devoted acolyte, make me so. Yet let me breathe. I have grown too far from living under the lamp shade of an luminous chart of pluses and minuses—my shameful checklist of regression. And I live much like a man wrestles a bear for his life; a wild bear, untamed vicious, industrious never resting, so is the idea that perplexes me. I am to experience mental, and metaphysical, psychological strain to subdue the frightful thought or to befriend it is no less a challenge. And silence is all I seek, yet raincloud do not stray too far, for although you are my enemy you are just as much my friend. That charming cohesiveness of my worried heart and wondering head, so the bittersweet ache of solitude is to me, and it gives me and a dark cloud plumes just beneath these priggish and haughty skin and bones, they think they are invincible to the disease of man, they have a mind of their own, for my sake it is so, yet beneath it all it bellows pushing and blowing some somber weather front through my chest, my arms and my hands pouring out scripts, dialogue, storylines, poems, etc. I pray it is from God. Let me not think of it as from the devil. For I fear all matters of evil try to find ways into me. Accepting my fate as a vile beast! No! I cannot acquaint such contemptible reveries, illusions, fabricated certainties to myself, to God to all that is good! Me thinks I have become a madman wearing the straitlaced uniform of normality. I beg you leave me despicable swine, all things evil and crawling let me be. For surely it is weak, and the weak according require such a parasite.”

Ayn sat, listening on the window sill, looking out on to the street collecting an ethereal glow as the rain reflected the streetlamp’s light. She replied “Jack, I fear you have grown too fond of the night, and the alcohol.”

Jack scoffed and turned toward the window. He looked at Ayn despondently saying, “Ayn you remind me of my mother, always shouting orders, always telling me things I never want to hear, then again she was always right, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean you are.”

“well, honestly Jack, I don’t care about you. Not as much as Francis, Peron, your mother or Mr. Weathersborn. It just am sick of you sulking to all hours of the night drinking whiskey and writing on your father’s walls. If he were alive—“

Well hes not is he? He’s dead… quite very dead by now. a year its been a year since he died, I don’t think he would have minded. Its mine now anyway” Jack interrupted.

“I'm simply saying, preserve what matters most to your heart, don’t let fantastical visions and transitory felicity take hold of you, it will surely make you a gambling man; eventually betting things far more valuable than your creative edge. And quite frankly if I have to listen to another one of your discursive rampages I will break every one of those damned bottles” ayn recanted.

today is gray. i feel refined to that same hum-drum city logic on days when i cannot distinguish the cracked gray sidewalk from a pregnant sky. but with a curt tip of the hat the weather can turn its good shoulder and shine on you brighter and more beautiful than it ever seemed before. thats the thing about the midwest--the sky is unpredictable, you can never tell what kind of day or person you'll be based on the sky. the weather here is definitely an esoteric personality. though despite the ambiguities and seemingly arbitrary circumstances that roll in and out with the ever bellowing chanty midwest sky, i start to think that there are some certainties in the seemingly capricious order of things. i mean, subtle reoccurances of the same event like the constant collision of arbitrary atoms, must mean something. what i really mean is the girl with the green pea coat. because you wish it it never means that it will manifest itself as a true and real actuality. i wonder why there is so much light in the dark then. it seems like things that do not compromise each other run hand in hand off the cliff of reason. i suppose i should have paid more attention to things outside--never discounting the potential of anything. today i may just watch the sky.

polymorphic blossoms. antiquated crimson, pale and distant. mutiny. one by one. fade to kiss the ground. the grass is green when the sun is high. the earth becomes an angry neighbor as we walk barefoot across its stretched skin, cracked and dry. whisper "do not abandon me, for my umbrella has torn a leak of light, let in all the noise, bright april sound, let in all the rain, become safe from underground, calling. calling. morning. organic bonds, holding hands inside my head.

i got misery in my pocket and your heart in my hand, i am tired of red balloon rhetoric but that's just the way it comes out when i try to stand beneath a waxing moon. the railroad were stitches to my past, but im stuck planting seeds of good intention with a midnight spade and i'll stay lucky as long as i can think that way, im tired of the heartbreak havoc, my arms are heavy, blue and shaking when im running around begging for oxygen, its another weekend, another weekend, heard someone say you should forget yourself today. the kids are screaming singing "im an animal inside you" a wall over, faces flush red, words start to grow, and get stuck in your neck, roll over, shiver and shake, face coverd in the vines of a lonley mistake, i should be in an emerald jail or staring at the constellations glaring back, at my wishful sorry face, ill have to hate to pick back up again. living alone, my sunshine trys to hide her eyes, swallow the outer space. well, my old man sailed the seas and back. kicked the dust of his retreat to find the light pouring in, crawled to my mother's arms and said "lets bury our past". but im feeling cursed, tired and alone again, i just feel blue today, dad, and im sick of myself when im humming the songs, i write when im sad, but you knew all along God would send his Son, im giving up my life but my heart is something you dont want.

i like A when it is loud and ordered to the holes inside. B and E sounds good too. C reminds me of the dust bowl i live in--it is a farmer's sulking guised as a pleasant distraction that nothing matters. G is the color green. D feels like the invisible--if i could understand it or color a little melody i like it more. still sound doesnt exactly drown it out. i only get sad when i hear she is moving away. but not always. its cause i want to know my name through the eyes of a stranger. i despise the silence between us. outerspace. speed trials. but not for me. i wait underneath a sunshade painted gray for the alphabet to arrange the letters and empty space to gain the confidence to make you smile. then i feel like i belong to something bright, and beautiful. not with my head hanging down, trying to cure my golden frown with a big nothing rolling in with a midnight tide and chemical clouds. then i see the comedy of being blind, and i wish i had no eyes. skip and skate across a fiery grave, flames of an obvious ignorance licking my heels in the dust of my retreat--it keeps me dark anyway. i was living high on the day until i saw nothing and something were the same. but let the figures fade and pile up again, and the life i thought i'd love to share, is empty like an open chair sits with open arms and a place to sleep. but if we're living for the lonley notes that ring away in outerspace what causes the singly breath of harmony of your hand in mine to shine bright, and beautiful (cause it never lasts), wasting away waiting underneath a sunshade painted gray.

i dont know my name. am i in the absence of sunlight for the fourth year of pioneering the great escape? deep blue space. the invisible man said wait for while. maybe then ,( )i can kiss you, in between the bars, i am asleep today i'll never know your face, maybe we fizzle and fade the same like a shooting star. bright and brilliant because it only lasts for an instant than vanishes beneath the still blue poison and pain. i waited for the alphabet to arrange itself into the letters that would make you smile, cause then today feels like it isnt a waste when i am taking a fall feeling sorry for myself like i always do, i cant look past the face on the wall staring back at empty space. it seems like a joke to me why hold close what can be replaced. walking down Washington to get downtown. needle in the hay. but there's a whispering man a floor above whos words get stuck between the timber and chalk, how am i supposed to sleep, forgetting my name. cause the blue fire and flame feels the same, when nothing and something collide into a suicide of darks and lights. i kept my door open but i dont like living without a lock

I wonder if the wait is worth my while, i got a sorry face and a head full of gray.

"particles of light, particles of matter, come together for an instant then scatter."


what is it like living without an empty frame?