is it drowning to
take in too
much
of a taste like
elation?
bliss
become
suffocation.
shadow work
may i be that thing
again?
the one with
a use
that fit in the
hand
of a warm blooded
man at play.
’twas upon crooked
hill
that our house
leaned
as though to watch
us leave
for flusher
scenery,
as cracks turn
break
and paint becomes
flakes
may we never
glance
back
at its sorry
old state.
settling into
strange bathwater
i swallow soap
bubbles to
float
but drift to the
ocean floor
as though i’d
died here
before.
ever humming unsettled
these hymns of
the mad
in a key that
could strip
the shine from
life’s tip.
the harm and deep
hunger
demanded much
louder
and every last
second
rang with
alarm
as clocks went off
between the
ears.
this place is for
holidays
only,
we live in a room far
more dark and
empty
where walls hold
generations
of intentions confined
to frame,
portraits snapped at
different
times
all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,
but we’re on
holiday.
i droop from
a branch
while my toes
stretch for
land,
not quite of the
sky or earth
but stranded in
between.
i hear rubber gripping
fresh rainfall
and watch clouds circle
like seagulls
while neighbors vs. neighbors
rekindle each
other..
i smell stale incense
as the hours
trip on
by.
pausing while chomping
at the lead of
a pencil,
thinking of writing
but the well’s
run chalk
dry,
anticipating ideas that
get wedged in the
brain wires..
shaking my head in
the hopes they’ll
be freed.
hands in the garden 
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