Blue PillI've only ever followedthe path already sketched out for me, but the blueprintsprint blues to my forehead;to my forearms. Cracking smiles is as taboo to me as crack rocks.I've tried crossing the River Styx on my own, but I alwaysfind myself getting drownedby the Ferryman, as he tells methat it's not the right timethat it's over for me yet.So I take the blue pill and a handful of advilto ease into reality.
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,your death wishof maudlin wordsstretched across this failing light.I will not wearnew wings for youthat crimson youwere born with -a mother's final wishto keep out the winterand weep.But I will wait,the flaw and beautyof your youthpainted across your palmsas you hold upthe moon to meet me.
RidaYou said your namewas Rita with a "d"and let me blundermy way through you.You said I had charm(and finesse was for amateurs)I liked how you were a ladder,how you could speakin any accent you wanted;you liked when Idid not change the sheetsor tie my hair back,You had droppedout of art schoolin Alabamawhere your fatherstill thought you were a virgin,and I was bussing tableson St. Charles.We lived all that summerin one roomand a kitchen.You would fry plantainsand we would wash them downwith purple haze,watching the musicianssilhouette their soulsagainst the sky.On weekendsyou would tell fortunesin Jackson Squareand men would payjust to watch your copper hairspill out their futureacross the cards.The city had neverseemed so cleanso fragrant with rainand the daze of hibiscusrioting in the courtyardfollowed us in our sleep.But autumn came too soon,hooded in chill -its mood ugly and resentful.I watched you deadhead someone's rosesin the yard -know
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
Authorshipyou’re the authorof this story - and yetinsist on playingthe role of a foilwhen you couldrewrite the pagesas you wish.
We all are beautiful!We all are beautiful!The problem is on our eyes!
Solemn TimbreMy heart is the rotten,exposed-beam,roof-ripped-off carcassof an ark;that once protected,nurtured, savedbut now is a mererelic,a remnant,of when there was hopeof things gettingbetter.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
spaceshiptwoWhat's leftafter the explosionare these suns,a faint projectionfrom an unreachable darkness,flickering.And then everything is simultaneous;the entangled mess,the crowds.*And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-The pilot painted across a desert,A desert painted across the pilot.*Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-The expanse outside echoed inward,Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman(or the memory of a woman).*Or maybe just the T.V. relayas I struggle to sleep,the newscasterfrom both dimensionsglowing and whispering:The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.