white noise at the end of the world.

I came out of the static
with her knives stuck in my hands
left my old self dead and buried
with a gun stuck in the sand
in my heart you carved your daggers
and the streets ran cold and red
if I don't carry you you'll stagger
is the last thing that you said
hear my foot steps catch and stutter
in the back she held my hand
found the alley that she stranded
and I found him as a friend

on the day she killed november
i hadnt seen her in years
her face it never changes
her heart is changing gears



i hope luke arnold wakes up tomorrow and remembers
that we're starting a hip hop project cause ive already started writing...

monsters in the city

and the streetlights

are out.

we felt the noise around

each corner, begging us

to find it; the walls

were made of braille

and the bricks made

signposts in broken

arrows; the mortar

weak with names

written with bullets.

even the rooftops left us vulnerable.

a message written

in morse code, paint

on our hands where

we told our story.

we never found the way out.

"I'll bury you in this story."

i have weird shapes

and jagged stones

in my mouth that

tell sleepy stories

while swimming 

through last nights

noir dialogue; some

conversations are

better had during the day.

conversations in pattern.

the jawbone sat still

anonymously, speaking

in half a whisper.

come to grips it said

the sunlight will hide for months

your time will end soon.

concrete holds us both

and our conversations are

stunted like cold breaths.

out of sorts.

I dread the changing of the seasons

four times a year I feel out of place

in my own skin, as my body gets used

to another climate in which it does

not feel like it belongs at all. I am a

stranger to this land, when fall skips

a beat and winter arrives unannounced

rudely like a drunken houseguest; If I

could I think I would hibernate like a bear.

This summer passed away quietly

and without a clue

brick walls still holding

onto the heat like

bodies just after sex

hoping that it doesnt get

too cold.

too soon.

writing on the walls

I lose words sometimes

in her eyes explanation

for the absence of our 

second natures; 

she says we are all just 

creatures of habit in our 

darkest thoughts, coming undone.

I left the days out of order

and hoped you could

reassemble the calender

in your hearts native tongue.

out of time.

you left the roots there

half in and half out

an imaginations worth

of doubt and coldness

heavy like anchors

in the hearts of the dead.

we're all affected

cutting the fog with

knives drawn on our hands

in crayon and stuttering

like children in the moonlight

dragging blankets and

looking for a way to go home.

the circuit is cut.

I spent most of today trying to silence silence.

so leave the balance to me.

and put me back where you found me.

in the shade and

out of breath

keeping the wolves at bay.

the words felt soft and smelled like cocoa butter.

she woke up and 

it was still dark. 

over my shoulder

the clock beside 

our bed mumbled 

something inappropriate 

and shook off our advances

for knowledge and closed 

its eyes in defiance. 

in language spoken like a synaesthesiac she said "I dream in minimalism."

There are gestures

in these hands

taken out of

context and left

out in the cold.

Paragraphs left

fractured and cutting

into the lines of

my palms to be read in

dimmed lamps light,

telling a future

that no one really

wants to hear. So,  I

took the steps two

at a time and found

the door locked, the next

few hours finding me

rearranging the words

and hoping to wipe the slate clean.

patterns of speech.

she speaks 

to me in 

a tone

best described 

as bedroomed,

hushed

and rich with

paphian desire;

her idiolect

clamoring for

attention

like her eyes do

when they 

hold me like

heavy lidded 

tractor beams

at 2:51 am

lips parted with

information

that she keeps

to herself

like a secret recipe

that she will let me

taste but

never understand.

I went to war and balked

at the lack of reasoning

I am thankful that I have

been given back my words.

"I am ripping cables out of me. and finding that I am still electric."

coy.

she came back

with darker eyes

and less to say

no matter how many

questions I asked

about the other side

and how bright

it may be

she just turned her

head and smiled

with the side I could see

and shrugged through

what could have been

a sob, or a giggle.

one more time.

I fought it for what seemed

like days on end

then the lights went out

and I could see her smile

in the dark, white teeth

in an invisible mouth

whispering fragile

sentences into the ears

of the walls this room

was built of; and they

went like this. 

Sleep sleep sleep all prophets

do, so that in their dreams they see

the future. Kiss me in the dawn at 

the end of the world because: in the

last days we all become who we

were really meant to be. The grass

will grow teeth and the concrete

will kiss our feet in welcome for

it is only when our blackened heels

touch that they feel at home.

The sunlight broke through

the windows with baseball bats

and brandished its own heat

like a knife, demanding that

we give everything and hold

it accountable for nothing.

Doorways.

The dream started like this.

     a quiet street

        with no lights

             and I'm alone.

I moved from 

block to block

with trash moving 

around my ankles 

like cats begging for

attention. It was 

so vivid that I 

could read the headlines

on the newspapers 

as they floated by 

like tumbleweeds.

They said, "Havoc 

in the pockets of those 

who think they are in charge!"

and "The doorway is 

closing, if you don't run 

you'll never make it!"

So I carved a bouquet 

of roses into the street 

and signed your name

because I knew that 

eventually;

you'd find your way here.

in the company of ghosts.

There are things in the fog

that hold onto breath

and live off it for as long

as mathematically possible

the equation is simple I'm sure

but my pockets are empty

and I have nothing to write

with;

in the company of ghosts

I keep to myself.

no matter now much you prepare...

I leaned in and quietly told my father

that it was okay to go.

and that i loved him so much

and would take care of my mother

that he didnt hafto worry about

it anymore.

and then he died.

and if he could see us all i'm sure he was amused.

it was like a tableau of love and loss. 

his funeral is tomorrow. or at least his visitation.

he knew so many people. im trying to prepare myself

for the barrage of people telling me stories

about how great a person he was and how he

was just so goddamn funny and a great golfer

and great friend. he was really someone to look up to.

this is not going to be easy.

sleep when I'm dead.

We're moving on thursday. I hate packing but I'm looking forward to this new chapter. I hafto be up at 6am tomorrow to go to a meeting in knoxville. I'm gonna hate my life. I plan on writing more and putting it here. We'll see how that turns out.