when you called I couldnt answer, my mouth was full of sand

when i opened my mouth to speak, the words got stuck at the intersection between my heart and spleen. i could feel their hard edges caught in the soft ridges of my throat, each one a painful pinprick.
the dirt on the edge of the road somewhere between Idaho and hell raised clouds of dust around my bare feet like wayward clouds of powdered sugar, the heat danced off the cracked asphalt, jagged and buckled at the edges like a giant hacksaw. when the cars passed by, the smell of hot oil swept over me like a wave with an undertow. your shoes never touched the dirt, like a toddler who only dips the tips of their toes into the shallow end of a pool.
the lamp on the bedside table cast light over the bedspread in muted bands of yellow like butter in grits, one side conspicuously empty and uninterrupted, no dips and valleys to cast a contrast. there was more room now for all the books yet to be read, all the journals waiting to be filled. all the time in the world now, there was no rush.
the sand on the beach was cold and gritty, it matched the sky, and the ocean. on days like this it was a treat, the weather drove people inside, like blind and terrified moles. lying on my back i dig my body deeper into the sand and open my eyes to the gray rain, coming down to contort everything and paint everything one color.

burn up in the blue black night

The phantom ache in wrists is like a song, the rope is the melody and the bones are the beat.
When the rope is gone the blood hums copper bright and scalding hot just under skin thinned by too much sensation.
How strange this song is, equal parts pain and misunderstanding, pleasure and comfort. A most unusual dance, all bated breath and sweat streaked skin.
Oh, no, yes, maybe? knife-blade thin teeth raking over hot flesh, the blood is so close, swimming like a slow river, pooling like a lake.
Muscles burning like the pistons of a car, coiling and sliding. the song never seems to go anywhere, no slow build to the bridge, no chorus to the verse, just the rhythm of the rope and the beat of the bones.
The rope bites tighter, the melody changing now, sliding higher and less controlled there isn't another place to be, unsung bruises are slinking low along the bottom, the bass to the rope soprano. the sheets moan along the backs of feet and legs, the forgotten strings section, just a filler.
Now the melody and beat changes, higher and higher till the sound is a single scream that fades into nothingness as if it was never there in the first place.
if the rope is the melody then the bones are the beat and no telling when the two will meet again.

while the chorus screams 'unity!'

The sea was a static backdrop, cool and a sickly greenish-gray; the wind was like an invisible brick wall, biting into flesh with the grit of sand and mortar. The clouds slid along the horizon, stretched thin and torn, like a crow’s wing, and the beginnings of rain pitted the soft sand, buckshot from the sky. The sand was deceptively soft looking, like velvet or cotton fluff, but when laid upon, it became cement, hard and unforgiving. And the rain, gently hush-hushing against the waves became like needles against exposed flesh, chilling it and sinking in to the bone, in the weird gray twilight, flesh became corpse white and sharp as knives. Behind closed eyelids it was easier to remember the good times, the times when the sun shone high overhead and gulls called and clucked to each other about breadcrumbs and fish. Now it was only soft grays and greens, like a bruise on the inside of a forearm, fingerprints fading with time. Sometimes there were other people on the beach, running on the hard packed sand at the edge of the water, flirting with the tattered lips of the waves, almost being pulled in but veering off in the other direction at the last second. How then could some outwit mother nature, while others fell into her traps, never knowing that they could’ve had a different outcome, if only they’d done something, changed something about their lives.
Behind closed eyelids, a different universe played out. The slice of a smile, all slightly crooked teeth and sunburned cheeks, the feeling of cotton against naked arms and legs, while the curtains, half pulled across large windows, filled like bellows with summer warmed air, only to shift side to side and huff gently, exhaling the air across the room like a sigh. That time meant that the sky through the window was neon blue, like a robin’s egg or that cup from second grade that had long since been lost but not the memory of its color. That time meant, long trips in an old car that stank of oil and old cigarettes, sand on feet and the seats, and a beat up hula dancer wiggling on the dash, a loop of bright plastic beads swinging from the rear view mirror. That time meant laughter and silly inside jokes. ‘yea-uh’ ‘yee-he-he-ugh!’ ‘Such a good little wifey!’ ‘I wish I had an evil twin…’ Those days meant not thinking about muscle aches, how tendons pulled and stretched, and pain from things not altogether age related, swam to the surface like oil in water.
If this were a movie, this would be the moment when the music would swell, something laced with violins and cellos, something dark but vaguely uplifting, so you would know that things were bad now, but they’d get better soon, back to days of sun and smiles. The rain picked up the pace, no longer needles now, closer to daggers, baseball bats. The waves were stronger now too, they rose up, higher and higher, like some Halloween monster, before slumping onto the sand with a defeated roar. Each one was just a little closer on the sand, gaining slow inches up the dry, papery dunes. The wet sand was cold, cold in the way that it felt hot, almost scorching to the touch. Much the same way that touching hot metal could feel cold. Numb feet made it hard to walk but it made the pain recede, like an hourglass tipped the other way around.
Behind closed eyelids, the rain sounded like a freight train rumbling down the tracks, solid and inevitable, like death and taxes. Slow and steady but it would make it to wherever it was going, like some dumb beast. Blue sky and gulls singing. Blue-black water. Smiles that curled at the edges like a water damaged photograph. Chemical salty rain and dagger cold sand. Naked limbs tangled in cotton sheets. Seashells sharp and needle bright. Sticky-soft Naugahyde seat covers. Black ragged clouds. Hula dancer tangled with bright plastic beads. The two realities swam over each other, like negatives of the same thing but at two different times. Past and present. They settled onto the beach like tattered pages, sifting into the sand, almost forgotten.

‘Precious and fragile things, need special handling’

worn out places going nowhere

look right through me, look right through me.... the words curled themselves into circles, round and round with the wheels on the wet pavement. she wondered how long she had been driving. the clock on the dash told her that it was now 2:43 but it didn't help when she didn't know when she had started. the rain came down in sheets, like laundry on a line, as soon as she passed through one another was just on the other side of it.the empty fatigue pulled at the back of her neck, twisting down her arms and numbing her finger tips, at least now all she smelled was the cheap truck stop bathroom soap and the pine freshener from the triangle hanging from the rear view mirror. the inside of the car smelled damp and forgotten, musty like a house that had been shut up for too long and suddenly opened up when newlyweds moved into the neighborhood, thinking that they would fix it up to have their little family in.It was an unassuming car, something from the late 80's, much like hundreds of other cars on the road, a nondescript color, neither tan nor brown, somewhere in the middle. The wipers scraped over the glass, whining slightly and smearing water in uneven stripes. whine sigh, whine sigh. the rhythm was almost soothing, gentle enough that it wasn't grating, too quiet to be unnerving. the radio hissed and buzzed, stations coming and going like people in an airport, here and there. always on the go to somewhere.
she lit a cigarette and cracked the window, letting in the smell of wet pavement, and oily chemicals come in, to mix with the artificial pine. the smell reminded her of a hospital, toxic and breath stealing in its sudden acidity. she scrubbed one hand over her face and flicked ash, heedless of where it dropped, no one was around to complain anyway. she inhaled deeply to see if there was any other smells on the air but there wasn't. the plastic bags and drop clothes were doing their job. she contemplated writing to the company but knew that it would never come to fruition, she wasn't the kind of client they wanted.
the road signs slid by, green and white, yellow, orange, some with blinking lights. take next left, detour 1/2 mile ahead, road closed, they meant nothing to her, she knew her destination, she'd get there right on time, it was just one of those kinds of nights.

somewhere far from home

driving late at night, in the rain, the road turns black and slick. the lines blur and slip slide, in and out of focus, the street lights streak and run, candy bright and rainbow. almost like driving on water. the easy music winding out of the speakers, licks the edges of my ears, the sleepiness pulls on my limbs and eyes, cotton soft and gentle, my thoughts are rounded and unstrung, spilling along my arms and passing through the windows to streak the pavement with the lights. oil smooth but nowhere as slick. the dash lights are military generals, stout and uncompromising, chests puffed out and backs straight with ingrained training, the fog is a siren luring my head lights off their chosen path, and the rain is a cushion from the inevitable blow. the drops tac tac tac against metal and glass and the puddles shush shush, like the ocean lapping against the hull of a boat. my thoughts spin, deep in my chest, when i look up through the rain i can almost see the moon, or so i imagine, phantom light, shining to guide me back home. my fingers itch for a pen and paper, to capture this moment, so i can remember it later, feel it all over again, like a false sense of nostalgia. i see my house and the porch light reaches out, home, and the sirens song is broken. and i am left feeling sleepy and slow. molasses in the winter, sugar in cold water.

How Does It Feel....

When the road stretches out in front of me, wide open and welcoming, I feel no fear. When the wind whips through the open windows and brings a curl of dust across my face, I want to breathe it in, so deeply I cough, till I feel it in my bones and the way my skin prickles, pulling tight over my scull. Strangely, the weird half light and under lit clouds, seem friendlier than the open black sky. Close like a blanket and almost as warm. The parching smoulder of a cigarette and the bite of coke left in the cup holder for a day, brings memories swimming to the surface, road trips of another time, another place and another person. the aches and pains are forgotten in the moment of the wind and sand across my face. the horizon races up to meet me, like the edge of a photo curling at the edges and I open my eyes widely, to see it like I should.

Befor the sadness kills us both....

It is so easy to see the cracks in the sidewalk, the way the tree roots come up into the sun like blind moles. but it is nearly impossible to see the darkness underneath, the way the dirt cowers damp and rotting below, like a secret, a foul truth. Nothing lasts forever but the distance makes it hard to stay, the wall around my heart grows higher than Rapunzel's hair can reach. Falling as the ground comes up to meet my body like a bed, the green of the field like a set of cotton sheets. If I were to be honest, I would have no words to speak. My mouth should be as empty as a tomb, company to only dusty bones, spiders in the shadows. If i have a disease, it must be the disease of over exposure, the poets of yesteryear would turn in their graves to hear the angst that completes our "greatest poets of our day!" nominations. My emotions bubble up through the cracks like a tar pit too long ignored, creeping and gliding across worn concrete and dirt. My mouth moves and yet, I have nothing of worth to say, the words crowding my tongue and slicing up my throat, razorblades and muck. I imagine it much like India ink, coating my chin and staining my shirt as i struggle to make art. The razors cut my throat ever deeper.

So Easy

Being the easy one is actually a lot of hard work. Even the word easy sounds like it doesn't require any effort, eeee-zzzzzeeeee. It sounds like a breath or maybe like wind through trees. So, I'm the easy one and it feels like a cross that weighs me down. The absolute worst part about it is how its me, me saying that I'm the easy one, me saying how I have a cross to bear. And now it's been so long that I don't even know who I am without this self constructed iron maiden around me. Brain, my hat is off to you.