Impossible Hour

i once slept easier than a
black bear turned golden
from the sun:
safe, heavy
in morning pastures.

i once knew more than an
aged sailor turned bronze
with wisdom and overwhelming light:
loud, anxious
for the sun to glow red, perpetual.

now it is dark and
i am restless and
i want to blanket you with
technicolor sun
but its late.
i know that it's too late now.

where are you at this impossible hour?
sunken, dying,
entirely out of my control.


Don't Care.

The kids don't care anymore.
They are either standing or slumping
or pretend-preparing for something
beyond their understanding.
And they will wind up and spin away:
They will wind up in a grey box
and that will be all they ever want
because they do not care anymore.
The kids don't care anymore.


Simple portrait.

I dip my hand in quick.
Pull it back out.
Examine my treasure.
Four jellybeans.
Two orange, two red.
Not bad.
Down the hatch.

The dog's whining.
She has to go out.
- Take her out front
so that the neighbor's dog
doesn't freak her out. - OK.
She fertilizes the ground with her piss.
The sky is streaked with peach and gray
and darkness is lingering in the wings.
- Is she going? - Yep.



findin|G| a seat

I wish that I had more to say,
all life passes in this way.
School bus teams of two to three,
and not one soul should speak to me.
Minutes wander latently,
I could talk for seconds, maybe.
Still, my vocal cords remain benign.

The window seat's alright.
That way, I can look at the pastures
(a stretch of green that extends its
phantom limbs to the outer reaches
of the universe) as
our jaundiced caravan stumbles out of town.
That way, I can ignore Devin,
my unfortunate translucent companion,
who is trying too hard.
Who is desperate for conversation.
Who is searching for some similar ground.
He receives "mhm" and "yes" forever,
and then resigns to texting his polystyrene.
In any case, we're almost there,
and it's the sweetest late-spring day...
But still there should be more to say,
I wish that I had more to say.

Anomie Family Brain - 1:15




She's at home, sitting in a corner, wondering 'why'. He's at war: blinded, immersed, engulfed

What's more: one side of the brain wants the other side to give up, while the other's lost in what might impossibly be

3. PTSD - 6:22



is (E)asy

Everything he's ever known has been synthesized into a terrible dreamscape. One idea bleeds into the next incoherently before he is finally entered into the thickness of his nightmare:

They're on outposts, everywhere, waiting to take out the first visible target. He escapes from the prison on the 9th floor and then runs down below. He saves tourists. It all ends safely on the ground: the police have eliminated the aggressors, and he speaks with a virgin martyr saint in Converse.

2. Chateau Folsom - 2:34



All is slow motion around him, whether it be due to his sluggish competition or his nerves... his mind pulsates: quick and electric. Faint cheering ; for him or someone else for him or someone else or is it just an echo, a lone reverberated straitjacket scream inside the whitewashed walls of his terrified brain

And the distance never lessens. He feels his head pounding and his breath catching. Acrid city acid, smog in the air. Collapse. My body wants collapse. I want nothing but (ellipsis) (ellipses) (ellipse) eclipsed

But in an instant, it is over. In an instant, he is released from what can only be described as living purgatory

1. Slow Clap/Slow Heat - 1:34