Sometimes we are made aware of beacons in the rest of the dark. Like stars littered across the attics we trap ourselves in. Sometimes we chase rainbows with beggars eyes and wishes like children. Some people are like soup soaked bread crumbs and wool mittens with the fingers cut out. The rest of us are chimney soot. And they are ‘chim chim cheree‘. They are song filling every corner of the antique shop. Silver under tarnish and weights and measures balancing on the hands of the scale suspended from the spear of a woman in white robes with blue eyes that match the sky when we stare at it and it usurps the corners of our eyes and we are made aware of how small we are as we get lost in how complete it is when it is with out clouds with silver linings that never seem to follow through to rain. And some of us? Some of us are rain. And thunder that shakes your soul. And images of gods in black and white that burn themselves onto our minds for us to study with our eyes closed. And some of us are doing the best we can. And some of us are not us. But are the others. And we would be lost without them to point beyond red sails on sundown ocean horizons, just before the world turns blue. And some are the pops and cracks between the notes of Coltrane on Vinyl. And you. You smell of confessional walls and a nursery. You smell of camp fire blankets and bruised roses. You move like corner of the eye shadows and windshield wipers with no chance of beating the rain. You write like stone tablets and feathers. Blown bubbles and spun webs. And you feel like chance. And love. And strength. You change like ropes on ship decks and tarot meanings from gypsy to gypsy. And you are beautiful. And beautiful. And beautiful. And everything. And everything. And everything. Strong like ropes on yard arms of old ships in ancient seas. And you go and you take us there. And we go, because we want to see too. And we want to be full on wild flowers and raspberries. And we want you to show us the line on our palm that separates the dark from the light. And we want bed time stories and lullabies. And with my eyes. And with your own too. And more importantly. You. You are the place where there is hardly no day time and hardly night. Things half in shadow and things half in light. On the roof tops of forever. Coo. What a sight…  ¶ 3:12 AM 4 comments

  Like middle lines on the highway. Pushing torn skylines to far off places. The bottom half of the sky is soaked in ink. The top is far to bright to stare at. And I am in the middle somewhere. I have fewer buttons than one would like it seems. The road is straight. Straight. The winding ones come after. And my tank is on empty. Empty notions of full tanks and nowhere to go but there. And alone and together. And alone. You see, my thumb is too green from planting my envy gardens to hitch a ride. But the highway is a sidewalk if you have enough shoes. And rain on black tops make rainbow puddles to study our dirty reflection in for the answers everyone else seems to see on our face. And the lightning is sharp and direct and strikes my core instantly. And once done, I am charred and burned. But with my own silver lining, it seems.

I will be your lightning rod.
But I am my own highway.  ¶ 4:00 PM 0 comments