4/20 Confessions

That night was
Different,
For I felt the same void breeze
Once before in a different place,

And I knew that you
Were too like that place:

Different.

Those shores down the line
Coasting shy from sky to sky

To bring us the currents of
That old breeze, carrying
Familiarly new feelings.
Each sensation,

Every single molecule on my
Hands as they grazed yours
Endured a mini apocalypse
Like my skin went nuclear,

And from then was irradiated
To be a clean slate
Upon which you
Claimed me.

And I was happy then
Even before the rockets burst
To be willful to your
Power, your yield

When you stay your hand
And declare, “bombs away!”

Your mercy and care
All rolled into one night.

Rolled like the joints
We would never touch
When offered at the
Restaurant later that night.

Confessionals are always fun
For me
But as we’ve both found out
Sometimes the truth hurts

Is it worth knowing
All the variables
And what they do
And have done?

What effect might that have
On you? On us?

Are we allowed to endure again
And undergo regrowth?
Turning the soil in our hearts
Over again to let gamma rays

Pierce through to the core
Of every shell-shocked nerve.

The truth hurts like nuclear
Bombs on a day destined

To end this way.

We’ve recovered already, driven
By androids, turned by waves
Further down the shoreline
In stories you weren’t a part of.

Let those rockets fly
And christen the world
In explosions as many
Times as it needs to see

Thermobaric mushroom clouds
Collapsing over you and me.

And after that
I want to feel the ground quake,
Volcanos to shake and tear
Apart their heads and shout

Boiling, vociferous magma
Across the sky,
Trailing ash lit by lightning
While thunder follows.

My confession before the
Apocalypse
So your god can see,
And that I may be absolved,

Is that you have always
Had that effect on me.

I have always walked
In the spirit of your words,
Of dust shadows splattered
Across walls by the force

Of light ripping through
The now-charged particles
Of a human body
Rippling with electricity.

This confession is in
Each doomsday you make me
Feel the weight of
In all the best ways

Because I know somehow
You can bring me back
From the dead with a
Touch and a whisper.

So that night while I
Learned about you, I
Began to stifle my fear
Of memory loss,

Instead focusing on saving
Every moment like it was

My last.

Now focused on making those
Thoughts permanent
And desiring destined-like
Rings to appear on fingers,

And to hope that we can
Pull anything we want
From
Thin air.

Your lips, your lips,
Apocalypse.

This is the truth
That I want to endure.

In every moment I can
Think of being my last,
Every bomb, bullet,
Disaster, starvation

Each thinkable end times,
You’re the one I want

To end time with.

Asymmetrical Relationship

asymmetrical relationship.jpg

Sony Alpha 6300; f/14; 1/80; ISO-100; 18mm. 8/8/2018 6:24 PM.

We didn’t have to fly at Lake Crescent to remember how long it took for us to get here. Not one bit. Corruptions by an outdated program help to clang everything into perspective.

D2athwish

So you’ve splayed upon
Hardwood floors your
Deepest feelings hidden
In your organs

Cut apart the shell
And bled out your wellness

What caused this

Eldritch
Elimination

Irukandji feeling
Of impending doom

Like the moon is glassed
And the sunhammer falls
Down to the world to
Flatten out the impurities
Carried out by no thing
But anti-social intangibility

Those Four Ghosts

Hovering
Haunting
Above blacktop
Phasing through

Everything

They shift
In and out of being

Hoods representative of shields
And displacing
Blinking
Far reaching

Between two times

Every other second
Pauses
And we can walk
While others stop

Teleporting every
Two moments
Ten feet forward
Talking to each other

Unaware of the stakes
Or that others exist
Almost shrounded
In our own world

We glitch as we walk

Hovering above blacktop
Abnormal presences

Still there in that place
Forever as four ghosts

Wolfram Rush

Constancy
No urgency
Slow moving
Solid of liquid

Kind of kinetic energy
Or vorpal between

Keen unrelenting
Slow-walking
Chassis that cannot
Be ceased

Ironclad
Juggernaut
A titan
By any name

Attack sustained
Decay released

Slowly greyly
Shattered dismay spree
Charging constantly
Stoppage to peace

Wrathful walking
Sundering mocking
With capability
With dissufferablility

Feeling of Wander

It’s true
That when you set out
With no objective
You quickly get one

It strikes you like
The sun strikes your face
At a magnified degree
To wake you up

On certain mornings

You step out and breathe the air
And suddenly you’re not without care
But you can do as you
So desire

Friends down the block
In parts you wouldn’t
Be able to safely walk
Off of Del Rosa

Home by another name

Church Street and Buckeye
In the shadow of an arrowhead

It’s pointing you to
The next graspable goal:

“Here”

With your own place to make
Fit into the endless landscape

You can rocket down Boulder
In an S2000

Blockbusters at the cinema
Breaking up fights
Billowing vape
Blasting miles at a time

You can wake up and look out

At the entire valley
From a mansion’s balcony

Citrus Plaza, Redlands
Loma Linda foothills
Like the foothills of
East Highland

Where smog drifts in the air
Tying tongues in limestone
And burning lungs
With runes and tomes

When I cough I remember
This is where I’m from

The land of oranges
Of dry, hot air
Saturated only with
Broken glass and exhaust

You can find palm trees
Close to the cities

But once you leave the roads
You’re just a stone’s throw
From finding out why
You woke up this time today

Miasma

Bad air hangs over Olympia.

Be it from the lake,
the waterfront,
the alleys,
uptown,
or on the hill
where law claims capitol.

There lives a wraith somewhere.

It manifests to infect newbloods
with its promise of risk, how it
renders silent the cacophonous mist
that is each participant in the
mysticism and illusion of this
such wonderous existence.

The spirit of the city.

How free it flies.
How it wears no guise.
How it clouds and drowns
the weak exposed to it.
How it galvanizes and uplifts
the fortunate, moonlit.
Eidolon hidden among
throngs of crowds,
sights and sounds
smoldering.
Even in a new age
its specter
pulls
the same old way.

Still possesses everything
in a fog of smoke and words
that murmur as you pass by
with silhouette’s eyes fixed,
each narrow iris, like spies
staring through space and time.

You enter downtown to leave,
but its air never ceases to be
as you continue to breathe it in
many realities after leaving.

Miasmata like incense in your
plague mask.