i crowned the king the other day, and he smiled at me as gracious as ever.

but i'll tell you, every king has his side that no one sees. it's ten o'clock leaving my seconds dry. it's ten o'clock and i'm shaking my head and the hand of a stranger.

but you know, every head has the hand of another, if forgave or forgotten. 

it's nice sometimes to stick your feet in the freezing cold. you feel alive, you know?

but i must warn you, you'll catch a cold if you stay out too long. you'll be sick and lost to the world around you. today is the day i started breathing! i left yesterday and i miss home. truthfully i've never felt so homeless in my entire life- cars are overrated.

i crowned the king the other day and i told him. i love the cold.

i've woven figment into fabric.

[ it's originating from my chest,  on all fours it approaches my brain            case, tickling my throat and nose during procession. ]

i've never felt like such a child as the firing line shot straight to my eyes.

         jesus excuses you kind sir!

                                                    to be such a groundless hog on a spit of landless sea is dripping in celestial flavor. i'm elated, euphoric, observant and lost in the under passing burrow. blowing low with the swiftly nimbly numb, human behavior can be categorized with convenience.

"hence, shall we roll?we are within a spitting distance!already?fuck!"

 

 to cosignatory infatuation i give my regards on this day we live en route; to gaiety and merriment i give my acquired taste for the wind; and for the wistful migrant my contemplative sorrows, misgivings, and a hawk. but you... you are saccharine. you have yet to be crowned with my cardiovascular king.                       on, holiday!

encased.

when i awake i'll be blind? i'll lay here encased shaping clouds.. in my mind (in my mind, in my mind...). 
in my mind i sit collecting not thoughts, but an earnest desire to stay in this home i've replaced with reason. i've missed these stairs so much to the point where i've tripped at least eight times since i've arrived. restless pacing on tranquil flooring should become a thing of the past- but in turn.. i can see the grey area as clear as the the whites of my eyes in the crystalline pool at my feet. it's drowning me, i am conscious, i am sinking. i cannot feel my fingertips underwater, so how am i expected to?

.

dear, "god" i've been going ninety-five to nothing. when i brake (s)he escapes with every second [it's too fucking cold, the heater is on but the window is down.] repeating, i must not, for i have my own comfortable arm to rest my head upon when i am caught up [or leaving]

fortify.

as he drives he sees and perceives the lines, but can't yet accept the rhythm of the highway life. [having never been] such a flightless bird, recounting in the jetstream as the chill and the brunt slaps with the wake of reconciliation. sometimes while in arms the thought of those lawyers [you remind me of a lawyer, and i hate lawyers.] is persistent enough to force the frigid air into the seams of his jacket, coating and dripping to lose. the car's burning.

dried.

a swollen thought between the bolts out-of-mind [out-of-blue]
i've, down these steps to the wishing well,
step fast, step smooth,
steep stepping the movement itself.
a pass, col[lap]se-
i've, floundering in light of the view.
dimming the rays while the pas[sing] tolls
sounding off those few roots' pleas, twist and fail.
the son of my father is a thief and a cheat,
i've. [cease].

melting-

my eyes droop, and close.
op e n i n g
to find what's forgotten in seasons passed.
of raindrops, a bow
is strung to pierce the sounds we hear in wishing, seasons strong.
i'll catch the massive cold where i belong-
wronging grips
on a spindle freeze,
oh pleading the water's grip to ease
away. alone, steps in tides.
cleansing stone-wrought mother's eyes-
from seven lonely sides.
rain, rain, snow.

diving.

I am alive and a drip, diving.
transcending the smile with a scowl.
my bed is a mirror of the downfall of man
and i'm drowning the fault with these keys,
again.
as my ear grazes pillows, the echoing truth,
a hound and a flame both produce
the same, lies.

rust-free thinking.

If you're green, lie to me;
but understand i'm in.
When are you back to the Sleeping Place?
Carry me there, a blackness evermore;
if only (to burst)-
At last, Defeat! Plots...
A heavy trot i've heard- a song.
I'm living in a week of minutes as 
         you
               creep
                       along.

regards to a drifter.

progressing in the sense of delay...
truth be known, be shown,
to be an exfoliation to end the world.
my regards to a drifter, the maestro of openings.
let his chilled iron thought regress into bloom.
to these stacks, these piles, pillers, and peaks,
thought the one to the showers of nature to speak.
the golden? no. the iron, be done.