Through grey trees and dead wires. Lifting light over buildings. The promise of warmth raises eyes with hope like glasses at a wedding. The chance of more, a question answered right. An alternative to night.
Shifting shapes and restless limbs, bustle to position. A sword in my hands and a scarf around my neck. Inching closer, moving forward. Some might say the sky is falling. This time I’m getting it right.
On the way, my mind speeds. Racing to another destination. Too early to explain, words in perfect prose rattle my cage. In my head & without time to write, I read the book I cannot right. The chapters bustle past in running order, funny, sharp & tactile. I am office bound. A job where days pass quickly but the inside hours go slow. Inspiration is coupled too often with distraction. To speak is to waste. Capture what you can.
all beginnings are applications
of some description
when you don’t know how long what you have been watching
has been the home shopping channel
morning tv fades out
midday lingers as the day is drawn from the deck
an all day agenda fades in
paperwork to make a home
jumping through hoops
we’re up to our hips
i think of everything i have to meet the criteria
remembering shreds of paper, lies & life
i contemplate every humane distraction
do i really need this machine?
am I insulted by the depiction of this demographic, namely me?
i’m too tired to tell &
i’ve spent too long on this couch
you don’t give up,
try not to lose the fight
to realise they’re not playing the same game
you’re ready to call checkmate.
when they play,
don’t call us, we’ll call you.
Alarm sounds as light filters into my dreaming eyes. The other half of the bed is already empty, the door drawing shadow from the life behind it. Feint calls gently echo through the upstairs & down. For this is how we choose to speak, insurance that the other is awake. The couch confession. We smile & assess. Mumbling about the meals we made & people pretending. Was last night better than the night before? It was for we were closer & close.
Our mouths are silenced by the cut up clouds that surround us. Light lifting, the traffic lights are eyes, peering through gathered trees. The cool air staves off the humidity as heavy heaves shift to steps. The edges of our eyes take in colour, mixing covered green with open grey at the horizon. Sun is raised, pushing through strands of white, both volcanic & baking. The only sound we hear are birds, our breath & muted horns running down rail beams.
This is our morning for a few minutes more.
I didn’t notice him at all until the wheels started spinning. Leaning forward from his seat in the corner he asked,
“Do you know the day?”
“Just a minute” I replied, fumbling through my phone.
“No” he mutters, “What day of the week is it?”
“Tuesday” I quietly replied.
I thought I had it bad.
All clouds are connected. Elevated veins of water fixed in the sky. Placed & poised. Carried by night. Drifting through days.
A humid sweat breaks in time as turning wheels draw us towards the storm. Dry ice on the road disguises cars in front. We carry on with caution. We carry on.
Conversations with wet hair see tempers tried & tested. Taking stock, we break to remember to take only the things that we need. The job at hand calls for patience, it’s the best skill I can hand you. It’s what I can give.
it takes some distance to reflect,
to stop, think, process, wait.
admitting you are wrong is one thing,
what you do to address it is
another thing entirely.
some people talk a good game,
revealing little except results.
both playing cards close to the chest,
& from beneath the table.
what’s the point in just speaking,
about things you want to do.
when these things could already be removed
from the lists you’ll never write.
before the paper peels,
the train is missed,
& dreams are out of date.
time spent treading water,
isn’t wasted when,
you use it to survive.
observations of a busy street.
a book store smells a certain way,
the comfort of a million stories.
time spent will unlock its promise.
a ball of twine is a welcome sight,
the promise of something to be made or mended.
a couple, drinks water in different ways.
one from the glass, one straight from the gym.
a friend pulls a friend away from a passing bike.
the way they smile at each other afterwards,
suggests they’ve been friends for a while.
moments later, we’ll be someplace else.
minutes later, we’ll be gone.
Seeing the beauty in the eye of sadness is not an escape from reality, but rather the acceptance of it.
It’s not often you get to have it all, so enjoy it when you do. A clear conscience & money in your pocket. Or a ticket, or a fridge that’s full of food. To have what you need is far better than to have what you want. Having had both & neither, I feel equipped to tell you so. I’m not talking about the desperate optimism of a gambler, nor the glass being closer to half full. I’m talking about being in the right place at the right time, & when what you’re talking about, turns into the movies. When it feels like you’re alive. To experience life. To throw it in the air, just to see where it could land. A simple life, provides you with no confusion. To never think in terms of loss. There are people who think they get it all, where every lock must have a key. Then there are those aware they’ll never wholly understand. Let the chains of entitlement rust the hands of those who knew. To those with unsatisfied hues. The rest are lifting glasses, to making things happen.
Filed under † † †, black & white, clouds, dream baby dream, fortune, light, photos, pictures, signals, signs, skies above
i like the way certain trees
can shape the sound the wind makes
as i walk alongside the train tracks
i could swear to you
that i can hear the breath of the ocean.
to my ears
i feel like i’m on a cliff
with the clouds ahead preparing
to rage over serene waters
marking the beginning of the storm.
it’s about to rain & i’m waiting
i’m wondering if this ground will soon
be too wet to walk on
or will my shoes commence to slip?
when is a good time to do anything?
i don’t like talking much,
the idea of escape is amazing.
encapsulated by the absence of light
a man tormented by the guilt of his past
feels he is owed beyond his own sentencing.
is he entitled to a second chance,
or just has nothing left to lose?
“the love i feel is not confused
i shouldn’t feel so good
its weird feeling guilty about your life
when it’s going so good
enjoy it while it lasts
there are still things i’d change in life
like where i went each day
& that i want to truly let the ideas i have inside me
to grow toward beauty.
in this cell.”
yesterday he lay dead on a hospital bed
cycling, swimming, running, relapse
these were the order of events
he wrote about them all
these are the stories to be told.