my eyes shuffled me awake,
while i processed all the names and faces that danced through my nightly lighting storm of dreamscapes, we all got these elusive desires that weave in and out of our reach, little ripples of anecdotal waves, stories of past events we keep trying to hurdle over, sometimes tripping onto the track, and wearing wounds on our shoulders i have had my share of stumbles, from the worries that keep me jaded, to the loans that keep me more or less completely broke, so i keep opening up into the world of reality, keep trying to focus and refocus the lens of my nearsighted nature, i make mistakes, and i used to walk around with an eraser, attempting to cover up all the sketchy lines on my surface, i would build up the friction between my eraser and my surface, until i ended up with a face full of patchy nothingness, and waited for something to write purpose on to me i'm gonna keep wanting, and i'm gonna keep churning, and i'm never gonna fully understand every meaning, but the worry stopped flowing, and i threw away my eraser face, and i live with the sketched outline of uncertainty, resting on the axiom of my own existence, and of yours, and the breathing in between the space of our distance when you run,
run full speed, til the voices in your head can't keep up with your feet, taste earth with your eyesight, because we're all just trying to read things a little bit deeper, through the supersymmetry theory, all the general and relative explanations for why you aren't happy, or why you feel like a gray mask of misty uncertainty keeps creeping in on your attempts of becoming a visionary, there are ways to become clear, overflowing lungs with the fingerprint of fulfillment, i'm gonna get there, we - are gonna get there high frequency shuffled parts,
dizzy distressed paper hearts, the faulty support systems we utilized, crutches and flying buttresses, cascades of pulleys for uplifting, but it was easier sinking, into the swollen blue bruises of the reckless ocean, the bell tower keeps ringing, to remind us of all the diminishing time, while we recall all the things done with an absent mind when you took away my breathing,
and i sat there gasping, like a collapsed engine, my jugular felt like a little spider climbing inside my throat when i learned to let go, i ran all the way to the end of my notebooks, scribbling words and pictures that would tell any sort of story, like the one about the boy without breath, holding his cheeks with a wish, and blowing those hopes to the breeze there's a whirlpool of funnel clouds,
dissipating into the misted foolishness my eyes keep glancing upon, the amalgamated alloy blood, binding in the matrix of my veins, my twist-top tarnished veins i keep spilling words onto webs, hoping something will stick, telling all these stories with the sole purpose of bringing you in, hoping i can give at least one reason to stay, for all the humming i do about the solace in solitude, i always liked it better when you stayed, my heart hiccups from time to time, i don't know why, i haven't cracked the code to my own body, so sometimes i laugh when i find myself trying to riddle questions about how to talk like God, all the whirlpools of rain he's got collecting, hidden in the hush-field foothills, my floods of emotion that give way to the ticking tin can behind my steel plate sternum, amalgamated alloy blood from the base metals that birthed me, the obvious signs of oxidation and rusted bolts i've been carrying, brought on by the backlogged tears i was too afraid to cry in the name of being a man, it's all there for the taking, it's all here and transparent, i'm not too scared of breaking anymore, cause that's when the building starts Barcelona, Spain forever's rooftop,
carried out on the expanding golden triangle, i can see the cities from rooftops now, without the fear of falling, you stood like a blood-tear statue, contorted in the truth-chase, the wooden structures of your heart, slowly weathering, hinting smoke, while i climbed away keep motor mouthing,
damn it - you talk a lot, through all the quelled rupturing, the copper shock, here i was, thinkin' about all the things you could be doing with your seconds, thinkin' about how i must have aged like a dog, too old - too fast, i owe you my spine full of words, letters arranged to sing all my worried glances, and yours too, the ones you inadvertently use to follow the strangers walking across the hardwood room, blew all my kisses into the windy april evening, storms brew, drink it down like any other, full of the envy for you, full of the energy too there was a stream that cut straight through the patchwork fields, in its shallow depth i calculated the rocks on the base, i always wanted to know your base, walked along the soaking bed of the galloping water, measuring the stones that would skip best, wound up, threw all my wishes across the silver surface, and it still doesn't know my name the city's another pretty face,
spilling out words from the melancholy treasure trove, thick thieves working the thunder-punch gut drop, we sway, underneath blinky light ceiling, cheap buzzing blood honey wine, on the folded corners of another city, another pretty face, descended into dusk in the reflection of narcissist flood water,
every fear of failure you ever harbored lays on the surface, staring back in at your baggy sleep thirsty skin, we all wonder how we got this far, and why we've got no gold to show for the days we've toiled the land sprouts when spring grows nigh, like my old mind when i learn new words, the choked green turned yellow and dirty, while the gutters catch the glycol and sand patches but in the mirror of small straight river ditches, carrying another boat to the lonely anchor points, we drift into the middle of nothing, only staring at that reflection in the flood water, the faces, of the strangers, that we've become sway to obscure living,
leaving footprints in mud, humming smoke waves over the hushed canal, absent thoughts about heartpunches, paper sternums, and black beads staring into the late night Ursa Major, there's an entire carbon load of mixed up code to figure out, stemming brain shock thumpers that make up myriad word choices, i don't promise much, but here's one, i'm not a poet, i'm no miracle either, just restless eyes trying to open full scale, see the multitude beauty, and find the strength of honesty Belize City, Belize broke down,
bridge fires, keep burning through and through, ashes to charcoal tear droplets, swept under the folding time, the horizon line, the exponentially growing tide, coming in on the shore, wash away all the sun spots and scared skin, eroding the sacred mystic temple, kneeling down beside the pool of rubble, the bridge fires, the broke down bridge a moment's sanctuary,
built up in forest, or hell-cave orifice, dripping holy water from the ceiling of collected syncopation time, we're a drop in the bucket, a group of heat motion atoms, waiting to explode from the internal pressure cooker of things we can't let go, still think we're being chased by ghosts, still think we've got a heart that keeps getting broke, but the ones who know, they whisper flash pan epiphany wisdom into your ear, and tell you things like: hearts don't break down, they break open, into an ocean of growth plates, that rain is nothing but liquid sunshine, that it's perfectly fine to be considered crazy, that you can build your own reason to exist, and that you should home on the hill,
balanced rolling, run along into the valley of plated oro, we go so far into the shelling of ourselves, and farther into the game of pointed fingers, you keep talking like pride, walking like thunder, but still tapping out Morse code nervousness on the table top, never folding, like the gambler so heavenbent on one more hand uneven layers of brick laid street,
we waver and bump along, swirling our cloudy days into sleepless nights, and sing in reverse about fire lamps that kept the warmth, there are a mafillion lines left to write, street bricks left to pave, all the wise construction workers laying square stone blocks, building their own escape, to the middle of everywhere on the cracked up road,
or the river of hope, or maybe just sitting at home, the line blurred, and my mental process was proven incorrect, in all the fountains of logic, and the spigots spewing out the holy water, sometimes the epicenter of the heart can't understand the thinking of the brain, but i learned vice verse is also just as true, i'm searching just like everybody else, i'm gonna be wrong, probably more often than not take your pick,
east or west, or all along the winding route that leads to the edge of your longing, we might just be double sharp sword handles, quelling the ring of fire that is eating us from the inside, or just a couple bastard childs, looking for the homeward bound happiness that has alluded us in our language, the railroad spikes shooting up like spines, the faces we've done left behind, the cracked concrete skin, and my flood proof face, we walk away easy from the things we don't need anymore, chasing another shore, under a torrent of soundless heaven the big scenes we make,
in the hopes of portraying importance, or of having felt deep scar blues, tissue build up, and licking our own wounds, this may just be the jabber jaw of a discerning eyed cynic, who started calling like he saw it, who realized that carrying empty fist guilt is no such substitute for humility and humble living, guilt is guilt, like me is me, and you is you, but the last thing in the list always took me the longest to say out loud, so don't pay no mind to a negative like me, senile at almost twenty something skin, or eighty something soul, who knows, who really knows Valparaiso, Chile the refining souls,
fracking and flaking in order to bring out the new, skin, a naked panorama of the things we hold in good faith, sometimes hopelessly devoted to the run-on sentences that try to explain the void, the miscues, i could stand like your stoic statues, all marble faced and weathered, fireproof, or with liquid transparency, all cards on the table, a naked panorama of the things i used to hold, and can no longer call by name you said that i like my scars too much,
i don't disagree, the granulated face of solitary motion, is one that i bear with no excuses, i am not afraid of the white noise, nor the silence that falls at the bottom of every exhalation, there is a faded view of the mountain i've been trying to climb, and i am not ashamed to say, that i am no where near the summit, there are days that i might dawdle in my worriness, when i spindle and fashion words into sometimes desolate landscapes, when titles like loner and hermit don't seem like too much of a stretch, while at times i have intentionally walked parallel with the dark, making effort to hide my features, all the while, reading and re-reading the maps, adding my own roads, and taking off into the tailwind, in attempts to learn whatever i can fill my mind-bucket with between the freight cars,
called the joints of forward movement, steel ribs that glare reflections of a nostalgic midday, a couple rusted chain links are all that's keeping us together, the miracle metal, and the dirty windows, bumping and swooning through the cattail pokelogan, the marsh and the mud, stationed and stagnant, underneath the shadows of all those waving white flags, flapping in compliant surrender |
Open blog writings and photos by Conrad Flowers - unless otherwise noted.
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