Monday, February 19, 2007

what you don't realize until it's too late is that the fever is silent. just keeps rising without a noise. the insects sense it. they call out warnings every day at dusk. unheeded. who would have thought their calls of the last letter could have saved a generation? instead they all went along like every other day. endless. until they all collapsed. a universe worth of pressure dropped right on the atlas spot and they couldn't hold the weight. no matter how much they could press. so the earth dropped. out of orbit. out of sync. out of time. out of think. out. cut the lights. there will be no encore. just the last red before the last blink to end the scene. fin.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

they say a picture's worth a thousand words, so i beg a thousand pardons for every one i've let hang.
what can i say, it's just something i fall into.

i'm stuck in worlds that resemble the real by 99%. but it's that last 1% that'll kill ya. and wouldn't you know it comes up every time. look at me, i'm the exception that proves the rule. sometimes i love it here. sometimes i'm visited by ghosts and we spend some time here in this strange bubble. sometimes i can just sit there, feeling the warmth for a while. and remember what it's like to have another heartbeat so nearby. but then the bubble bursts. and we're back at 100. and the ghosts are gone. and the room is warmer than i remember it being. and the one percent bitch slaps me.
i don't mean to travel dimensions. and i'd stop if i knew how.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

two monikers. that's all you need. or, maybe, secretly, i have some sort of inner longing for more. i'm short i'm owed. so i come up with psuedonyms. to make up for what's missing in the middle. smoke and mirrors to fill the space. sort sort of sub-conscious soothing remedy. a laundry list of alter-egos, but none of them can wash away the missing. could i have been mis-named? even without a third it's a lot to live up to. so, for now, i guess you can call me mud.

she couldn't come, cause her insides were rotting. and, for once, he didn't care. and he thought, 'maybe this is progress.' and, maybe, these confrontations and nights of bad sleep and drama and doubts and feelings of being unfulfilled are how it's supposed to be. maybe this is just what life is. and, really, is it so bad? sometimes you just have to step back, enjoy a home cooked dinner with friends, and retire to some bukowski. cause most of life is just what you do to make it to the peaks. and that's not so bad.