words and patterns

I have mixed feelings about hope

Maybe living into and beyond your 40's is so enigmatic and strange because we've only been doing it for a short period on the timeline of humanity

A quiet you can taste on your tongue No one loves/moves Now/no one breathes Let it go Or you stir the wolf Am I at home with a lover Or in a cage with a stranger I awake like a fairy tale I awake from the fairy tale I didn't know that was the good part The ceiling is a mirror Reflecting everything I've ever done Was it always there? You kept the worst parts of me from seeing their reflection Now that's all I see Left behind in a dead bedroom

Stuck in the border between day and night, like a demilitarized zone between black and white, where everything in between is possible.

I followed dizzy daylights and hypnotic halogens, a theme park of neon backdropped in the green black smog choked nights. A set of eyes without pupils means a million pupils, like a fly. All singular focal points, and an outboard cpu runs an algorithm that determines what signals get sent to the brain, or which images it sees. But unless you're getting it installed by some back alley grinder, it's net. What you see goes to a corporate server, and can be traced and accessed. 

I knew the line, some sort of deconstruction of the melody from sesame street, played in minor. The last few rehearsal jams we had together, the saxophone player had toyed with it, and we passed it around and mutated it until it's callbacks, like now, were unrecognizable to the original line. the permutations and accents we had each given it had become like personal jokes we were telling, so that as I heard the feralized jingle I involuntarily grinned.