oh go

fuck yourselves.



when i wake to the grey and it's slow and gentle and calling me out. i hate how my mind works. in memory so vibrant, loud. selective. that night we danced till i thought i'd die laughing. that afternoon that split me open and made me sure heaven is not here at all. i know the feeling now. the truth. like all those little boys long since grown and given up. who've left superheroes behind. we were meant for flight. i look to the grey sky. it cannot be denied. i know i should be able to go up up up, swoop low, glide in grace for fun for joy for love for celebration.

to think you know something, and then become absolutely unsure.
it's so stupid.
it's so typical.
no grass is green at all.

even at this

hour, a dull orange glows up from the city's distance. fills the canyon, blackens trees, blots out buildings. we're reduced to cut-outs of ourselves.

this is the tale

tall and crisp and crumbling at the edges. worn and burnt, it's stood the test of time and fire. it whispers the ambiguous, coexisting truths. it wails in the desert confounded ultimates. it sings and swirls, it never spins. it gathers up, it cuts and widens, it divides. when you are calling out, it comforts. when you are fat and bored, it tugs. no one will ever understand its fullness. no one could ever look into the light, except through blood-stained glasses, red-streaked robes. what is asphalt and sidewalk? what is concrete? what is brick? what is plaster and plywood? there is nothing but children of all ages, grown or gone, or crying out to emptied parents, "look at me! look at me! watch me, Mommy! watch me Dad." love me, listen to me. like me, talk to me. take me places, teach me things. ask me questions. sing me. sing me to sleep.