From the primal question to the twenty-third answer.
My thoughts, once held captive in the worn pages of my bedside notepad, have erupted forth. They bleed into a curated amalgamation - you, me, the collective consciousness pulsing as one.
Don't just read these words, immerse yourself in the emotive depths they paint. Let the visceral feelings that birthed them seep into your skin. These aren't merely writings, but echoes of my existence distilled, shards of my soul splayed raw across life's canvas.
The intimate interrogations, the splintered inquiries, the hollows between bone and flesh, the fragile frames of realness cloaked in skinny guise, the yawning arctic chasms tunneling my core, the tattered bruised wings dripping bitter substance - they sprawl before you now, unfurled.
Each bears the imprint of the years we've breathed this shared air, gazed upon this singular sky, our rhythms intertwined in discord and understanding.
Unravel these petals plucked from the garden of our experiences. Let their unraveling be your mirror, refracting those feelings you've let lie dormant, hibernating in the forgotten hollows of your deepest self.
My thoughts, once held captive in the worn pages of my bedside notepad, have erupted forth. They bleed into a curated amalgamation - you, me, the collective consciousness pulsing as one.
Don't just read these words, immerse yourself in the emotive depths they paint. Let the visceral feelings that birthed them seep into your skin. These aren't merely writings, but echoes of my existence distilled, shards of my soul splayed raw across life's canvas.
The intimate interrogations, the splintered inquiries, the hollows between bone and flesh, the fragile frames of realness cloaked in skinny guise, the yawning arctic chasms tunneling my core, the tattered bruised wings dripping bitter substance - they sprawl before you now, unfurled.
Each bears the imprint of the years we've breathed this shared air, gazed upon this singular sky, our rhythms intertwined in discord and understanding.
Unravel these petals plucked from the garden of our experiences. Let their unraveling be your mirror, refracting those feelings you've let lie dormant, hibernating in the forgotten hollows of your deepest self.
- Monotony of Familiarity
-
Symphony of Silence
-
Swamp Land Porch in Louisiana
-
A Transition of Life
- A Long Time to Get Ready
- Flavors of a Memory
- Pick Him Flowers
- Dance With Me, the Lights Are Off
- Bury It Next To Me
- Beyond the Depth of This Surface
11. Cancer Cowboy
12. Lay Me Down in the Mine Field
13. I Drink Too Much Coffee
14. Fleeting, Oh We are Fleeing From The Mountaintops
15. Eternally Swaying Through This Forest
16. In the Shadow of the Bayou
17. Duckin' Streetlight Notes
18. Intimate Interrogations of the Disarmed Man
19. Questions Of Mine, Broken They Come
20. Bones & All
21. Real, Flesh, & Skinny Jones
22. Widening of The Gap
23. Wings of Substance & Abuse
12. Lay Me Down in the Mine Field
13. I Drink Too Much Coffee
14. Fleeting, Oh We are Fleeing From The Mountaintops
15. Eternally Swaying Through This Forest
16. In the Shadow of the Bayou
17. Duckin' Streetlight Notes
18. Intimate Interrogations of the Disarmed Man
19. Questions Of Mine, Broken They Come
20. Bones & All
21. Real, Flesh, & Skinny Jones
22. Widening of The Gap
23. Wings of Substance & Abuse
PRESENTING
Monotony of Familiarity
Every morning, I part the curtains of the same window, casting my gaze upon everything, yet truly seeing nothing. You persist, panhandling on that stubbornly unwashed sidewalk. I continue to sip my overpriced coffee; it's a routine, familiar and comforting. A morning without your presence feels strangely incomplete - is it absurd to believe that your life appears ordinary while mine feels like an enigma?
Those eyes of yours, they seem to have endured more than my shoulders could ever bear, but society views you as if your shoulders aren't weary and worn. It's not me who's been handed the rotten luck, after all. We engage in this daily silent dialogue - you questioning what I can offer, me pondering what you seek from me. Both donning poker faces, none too effective, now oddly convincing in our silent pantomime.
Every morning, I part the curtains of the same window, casting my gaze upon everything, yet truly seeing nothing. You persist, panhandling on that stubbornly unwashed sidewalk. I continue to sip my overpriced coffee; it's a routine, familiar and comforting. A morning without your presence feels strangely incomplete - is it absurd to believe that your life appears ordinary while mine feels like an enigma?
Those eyes of yours, they seem to have endured more than my shoulders could ever bear, but society views you as if your shoulders aren't weary and worn. It's not me who's been handed the rotten luck, after all. We engage in this daily silent dialogue - you questioning what I can offer, me pondering what you seek from me. Both donning poker faces, none too effective, now oddly convincing in our silent pantomime.
WHAT DO YOU SAY?
Symphony of Silence
At a corner of memories across from a bar we once claimed as ours, I found you. Why you chose to trust my unlocked door, why I felt the pull to open it for you - the answers remain unexplored. There we stood, two wandering souls intertwined in a staredown of understanding and mystery. The roots of our discord were as elusive as the whispers of a dream upon waking. I gazed at you as though you were an unread chapter in my favorite book. Your gaze held a recognition, as though my soul was a mirror reflecting your inner world.
Lodged deep within your throat, hushed truths and wavering tones coexisted, a silence only you could savor, one I longed to decipher. My thoughts wove a tapestry in a realm I hoped you could traverse, even as my own life felt like scattered pieces of an unfinished puzzle. Life's rhythm pulsed from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, each beat reaching out to touch that elusive silence.
There you stood, on the precipice of articulation, a whisper away from being heard. And I was there too, a thought away from grasping your unvoiced words. Could we, even for a fleeting moment, exchange roles? Would we dare to slip into each other's shoes, to truly feel the rhythm of the other's dance?
At a corner of memories across from a bar we once claimed as ours, I found you. Why you chose to trust my unlocked door, why I felt the pull to open it for you - the answers remain unexplored. There we stood, two wandering souls intertwined in a staredown of understanding and mystery. The roots of our discord were as elusive as the whispers of a dream upon waking. I gazed at you as though you were an unread chapter in my favorite book. Your gaze held a recognition, as though my soul was a mirror reflecting your inner world.
Lodged deep within your throat, hushed truths and wavering tones coexisted, a silence only you could savor, one I longed to decipher. My thoughts wove a tapestry in a realm I hoped you could traverse, even as my own life felt like scattered pieces of an unfinished puzzle. Life's rhythm pulsed from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers, each beat reaching out to touch that elusive silence.
There you stood, on the precipice of articulation, a whisper away from being heard. And I was there too, a thought away from grasping your unvoiced words. Could we, even for a fleeting moment, exchange roles? Would we dare to slip into each other's shoes, to truly feel the rhythm of the other's dance?
MOSQUITOES SWARM MY CHILDHOOD HOME
Swamp Land Porch in Louisiana
The searing heat of my drink blazes a trail down my throat, while beads of sweat meander down my forehead, a futile plea for respite. I can sense the fleeting moments, precariously balanced before an inevitable splinter beneath my bare feet threatens to peel away more porch paint than my grandmother ever anticipated. Her physical presence has been absent for months now, but her spirit lingers, a soft echo in the wind's sigh or the rhythmic sway of the grass bending to the whim of grandpa's fishing rod off the porch.
The bugs have dwindled since she left us, an emptiness unfilled, a song silenced. Now, her memories are carved deep within those who convene on this porch. Its crimson hues have surrendered to shades of purple, a silent ode to the relentless march of time. I can sense your touch in the boisterous music belting from the neighbors' parade of cars barreling down our street. You've always had a passion for dance, revealing your steps only to the alligators who watched with seemingly rapt attention—though I suspect they were simply biding time for their next feed.
My love for you resonates with the quiet intensity of a tree's love for its roots. It's an unspoken bond, a contentment found in simply being—never straining for more, never settling for less than what is freely given.
The searing heat of my drink blazes a trail down my throat, while beads of sweat meander down my forehead, a futile plea for respite. I can sense the fleeting moments, precariously balanced before an inevitable splinter beneath my bare feet threatens to peel away more porch paint than my grandmother ever anticipated. Her physical presence has been absent for months now, but her spirit lingers, a soft echo in the wind's sigh or the rhythmic sway of the grass bending to the whim of grandpa's fishing rod off the porch.
The bugs have dwindled since she left us, an emptiness unfilled, a song silenced. Now, her memories are carved deep within those who convene on this porch. Its crimson hues have surrendered to shades of purple, a silent ode to the relentless march of time. I can sense your touch in the boisterous music belting from the neighbors' parade of cars barreling down our street. You've always had a passion for dance, revealing your steps only to the alligators who watched with seemingly rapt attention—though I suspect they were simply biding time for their next feed.
My love for you resonates with the quiet intensity of a tree's love for its roots. It's an unspoken bond, a contentment found in simply being—never straining for more, never settling for less than what is freely given.
YOU’RE THE LOOSE CHANGE IN MY POCKET
A Transition of Life
The loose change rattling in my pocket, ever jingling, ever morphing, inevitably slips through the unseen chink I must have neglected. I’ve metamorphosed in this season of yearning, the only fuel for my relentless train. Even as the snow sidles up my legs, it can’t derail the inevitable. So, I ask myself, what am I so petrified of? Could it be the nickel whispers riding the tails of my coat, or the dime’s deceptive murmurs suggesting everything won’t fall into place?
You dealt with me like the insignificant change an attendant hands over with a half-hearted hot dog. I barter my certainties for potential treasures, and in return, you gift me a heavier truth—a quarter, more tangible, weightier. Yet, paper money offers a solace, a sense of security that the rust-stained copper nickel can’t replicate. It’s the subtle narrative of texture: the solid, crumpled refuge of paper notes against the cold, relentless truth of metallic currency.
The loose change rattling in my pocket, ever jingling, ever morphing, inevitably slips through the unseen chink I must have neglected. I’ve metamorphosed in this season of yearning, the only fuel for my relentless train. Even as the snow sidles up my legs, it can’t derail the inevitable. So, I ask myself, what am I so petrified of? Could it be the nickel whispers riding the tails of my coat, or the dime’s deceptive murmurs suggesting everything won’t fall into place?
You dealt with me like the insignificant change an attendant hands over with a half-hearted hot dog. I barter my certainties for potential treasures, and in return, you gift me a heavier truth—a quarter, more tangible, weightier. Yet, paper money offers a solace, a sense of security that the rust-stained copper nickel can’t replicate. It’s the subtle narrative of texture: the solid, crumpled refuge of paper notes against the cold, relentless truth of metallic currency.