[	mood	|	quixotic	]
[	music	|	Moder Day Prayer- two thirty eight	]

melissa made me do it.

"Breakfast for Sixty-Seven"

idle produce passing from palm
to impatient palm,
damp with intention; impeded.
single file beneath
insistent fluorescence
growing with indifference
to the underpaid cashier,
counting and recounting.

Shifting weight slowly
your neck bent and eyes cast down
seemingly entranced
when unable to quantify the
black specks in industrial tile.

I'm letting off the anguish
not five miles away beneath a
moon half changed
from full
to new in weather
not far from perfect, penning requested prose.

as you're too cute in goosebumps and ill-
fitting jeans
with an under-ripe tomatoe tucked
solely and securely
in your left,
    and your right hand unwittingly
keeps the beat to a week spent in Winnetka

where they understand
the wait of a human heart,
losing beats
                  you'll never repeat

to an inept attendant,
impulse items aimed at your insecurities,
a couple buying breakfast enough to withstand world war

and somewhere between
the shiver in the freezer section-
the static line forming behind the acne scarred nametage toting "Andy"
a stagnant conveyer piled with honey bunches of oats to feed the Philippines
and the locks on your home
an octagon will have you pause
     and within that unnecessary hesitation
the crimson blur of momentum
will tumble from an otherwise empty passenger seat
and bruise on unclean floorboards,
identical curses will cross our
lips as an awkwardly bent frame fumbles,
aiming at retrieving what your
wait was worth and my
ink ends, words now nothing but my best
impressions on paper.

[	mood	|	sick	]
[	music	|	"great lengths" -the lucksmiths	]

I got in a car this morning
that wasn't mine,
but i say it is when i pick you up,
until i drop it off before the owner
wakes, and I wonder sometimes
if i should choose a direction and drive
that way, but i can't afford
the fuel. Why do to I only work
up the courage to call at 3 am
you time,
                 which is also mine,

some say that when the sun and horizon
collide it sets the sky aflame, and
darkness is the scar tissue the moon heals at
night, but i know better.
                                     at the crumbling extremes of nature's pier
we saw the waves swallow those flames
and as when the passion of your heart drowned
in my affections, black steam rose
until those constant stars seemed
to let us down, fading on occasion only to
             remind us of their strength.

some say that this leap
is an unfettered selfish act,
but don't we know better,
some say that this is the easy out,
but they haven't seen this view or felt this
-vertigo
or maybe they have,
even if i don't care how i make them feel,
we both care what they think, they think,
so I'll jump for you
and you for me.

[	mood	|	sick	]
[	music	|	"The fog of trujillo"- The lucksmiths	]

this is the smallest thought
that you could perceive
hanging on the edge of periphery
this is the motion you missed
so think quick
'cause if this
just doesn't fit we must acquit.

but all jokes aside
let's just finish this sigh-
gather our breath
and leave it bayside,
make for higher ground
leave our ghosts or ghouls
and the emptiness
we felt was profound
but it was wisdom
contrived, biting our tongues
wishing the coast to
kindle our fires.

but now the new moon's tide
just left us here
dripped saline
redundant tears.

but you're still
passing up
on passion
can you see where this ends-
an epilogue done in red
there is no you
so the ocean currents
bleed you into the blue.

and this is the smallest wish
that you could percieve
"let us be borne back into the sea"
and sink or swim at least we begin something anew
from the trite and the true.