Deflation

Here, another mildewed overture on a wallowed chair. Sometimes I wonder of the lengths we go to establish our own reason. I think about it often, but surely, there is prophecy in every spent moment, forward or back. Right?

Maybe I'm getting older. Or that might only be the easy explanation, maybe it's these pensive moments that expose my lust and lacks: a lack-luster momentum and a penchant for both appetite and laze. More often than ever I feel like I exist in a bowling-ball rut. So shortly after sprinting, the fatigue envelopes me to sit and wait for sorting.

And no matter that it is today and today's end is fast approaching. It always seems this way, an everlasting waiting and wanting. Next is always more important unless it's now. And then that's over.

So next I ski the alps. Next I see the world. Someday I carve out my career, fund love, and find place. Somedays, life just feels like a pointed series of escalating dares.

Heartbeats

Why do words always fail me when I need them most? When life seems like it's on tumble-dry-low, it all seems to falter on the tongue.

The places that have held me solid dissolve behind me as the loves I hold so dear slip sideways.

And what is happiness, if not a slumber? For all I have had, has been but a waking dream.

Slung like an Eephus

Lives like snowflakes whisper as they slide through wistful daydreams --culled sharply by a terse reminder that there are things to do, forever and always. I think there is something to be said here about hesitation, and to not hesitate; today is as free as you or I allow it to be. Cut slack and let the dang thing fly.

When I say I'm going to go and do things in incredible places, this time I really mean it. Like the river of flakes slung down towards this earthly reservoir, it all just seems to flow nowadays. One live into another, each meander a syllable in one long beautiful sentence. That's all we can ever really hope for I'd reckon anyhow. Anything longer should probably be edited down.

Darting Dreams

I've often dreamt myself.

And more than anyone else, I've dreamt myself the artist. Finely tuned perplexities in person and place, vocalized in a gambit of heart.

Yet these days when my emotions seem closer and realer than ever, microscope tuned to the beat of the heart and not the days that carry it, the emotions are blurry and the feelings too quick to consider. I can't ever tell what makes me happy or sad. I am empowered and defeated, a gluttony of skimmed thoughts and feelings and a hodgepodge of porridgy wants.

This is the truth of that: I have often dreamt myself different. But I am the indecision and the indirection. I am the uncommitted that rolls with the punches, every punch but his own. There is no one song to sing, and this voice, this voice that always sounds out of tune and out of touch, is just that. And in that, finally, is my persisting essence of undefined labor and love.

It is what it is.

Waiting

Every sentence had a darling. A hook of brutal honesty, misplaced in a town heralded for its lacks.

I stuffed my bill in her jar while she was making my coffee, only half looking. Just so she couldn't be sure if the hook had caught or not.

Summer here is a time of wonder. Between empty benches and short stop-lights there is only time to consider what next.

Denial

Happiness aside, lives are complicated messes. Ideals directing desires, fumbling for coherency. Sometimes it seems my peers have some sort of insight, and maybe I just missed the meeting. But if so, that is theirs.

In all probability, it might maybe be my path. Corrupted by a daunting paralysis, or maybe just rejecting any happenstance of conviction.

These are my defining days. In my future planning, I imagined them with less patchwork monotony, and fewer coffee-shop afternoons.

And there I dilate my utmost emphatic ideal-spun-desires to hopefully spill, if only momentarily, into my perplexed soul. And instantaneously it all seems overwhelming, and contrary, and worst of all ridiculous. I sense the drives, the pulls and pushes of a life less squandered. I know one filled with love, a life of opportunity, and one of endeavor. But I cannot commit them in utmost pervidity, and they fade, I fade. In and out, I pulse and evaporate. A nothing and no one.

And awfully, might often prefer it.

If there is lack, I suppose I might rather deny it than have it be denied. If so, its hardly mysterious i find myself here again, in my defining days.

Transparent Loans, draft one

I'll buy you a river, he said
in so many words.

And lost, I
thought it appropriate
as my sheening waters
cast ripples to the sway
of an invisible breath.

But still, I said,
in the murky shallows
strangle-weed brood. And
in gaunt currents too
sudden or subtle to hold
or control, is a fear
I might really be profound
an lost in the depths unknown.

Roots

Slink slowly, away. From the road, from the familiar daunting countryside. But I'm no more found now, now that I'm here.

Strewn across some unfathomable endlessness, I can't hardly begin to imagine me whole. Maybe it's for the best. I am here indefinitely, and ought to leave the rest unmentioned.

The real world is small and confined within my scope. I want to make it larger until I am happy and exhausted. Until the miles simply end in euphoria. A sort of perfect natural choreography, unlimited and certain. The sort that might only exist in my day-dreamed endeavors.

Another winter passes, and with spring I sew no new answers. In my heart and love I may not ever know myself. Dug down and planted, forgotten in  a lifestyle passive and foggy too long to be recalled. Was I ever reborn? I might be just a ghost after it all. A memory of a shadow, fleshed out in worldly knowledge and triumphant affairs. Rootless and unbound.

Haunting Horizons

If the sun were shining I might be overwhelmed. These slated white skies humble peaks into nothing, but still they seem appropriate in their bright vacancy. Like a smoldering hopeful helplessness. A promise of breaking rays of sunshine soon. And still so bright despite the rolling storm of heavy haze. The sun exists, content that yesterday's shining moments can return again soon (but never soon enough).

Garter Metals

Garter metals of nonsensical texture. Its need is my absolution, our joystick affair. Thrusting hollow edging in shushing silent harmony; we feel and jetty intonation, vying for intoxication.

Texture

In travel I feel it. Transcendent and maybe even a little wild. Dimensions unfolding in my stroll; fibrous incongruities languorously demanding to be explored.

And I feel it. Her nuances whistle-blowing nonsense. Her reality solidifying with every glance. Every tidbit is a galaxy.

Aging Aegis

There are a million analogies for my age. I don't want to see this glass filling, but it usually pretty much always is doing its thing. It's easy to plan, and just as easy to avoid dedication. But it's hard to accept. It really is.

The whole world is so limitless. And I don't feel limited. I really don't.

Déjà Vu

Superstitions stitched like quilts; a patterned facade to comfort or quarry. But I'll believe in déjà vu.

Because time is a misnomer and love is real.

Sometimes when I'm about my lives I can't comprehend the acquaintance. The absurdity of coincidence. The entombed conversations, predictably new.

Well that's all well. I've sensed my share of the explainable, sure.

But déjà vu is closer to my heart. To believe is with conviction of the subtle hints of her in the marrow of my logic.

I know her smell, and I have seen our breakfast nook. So I believe in déjà vu, because love is real, and time is nothing but a line, cast out in wait, for the love we already will.

Litter

Surely we must live lives. Girls, foods, endeavors and adventures alike amount to more than we could ever sustain in memory; more than one solitary being could ever regard. Multitudes abandoned along long roads kissed, walked, and driven. I am so much. And yet, so little.