It's such a strange life sometimes ... ... and it's not just the drugs or the herbs or the sudden changes of environment. It's not the questioning looks or the random phone calls or the tax evasion. It's such a wide range of feelings when you take into account physical health and mental health and spiritual health and social health and so on and on, halcyon, crashing asleep dizzy drunk meandering about dressed in something that looks like it just barely survived a Christmas housefire, patches across the eyes, woven into the very personality of the previous owners, all defenses drop through a second story window on the corner of Ninth and Lincoln.

Another jumper.

We've lost another jumper.

What is a fixture in my life is just a fashion in yours ... ... the perspective will never come full circle and you'll only catch weekend glimpses into the unrealness of it, the pleasure, temperature, sugar water strained through lemon juice. Chris? Have I taken on your old writer's cough? Have I adopted yourself tonight to help me through the morning? Walking avenues of glorious distance, city blocks filled with destinations, directions. Waiting between the moves, walking the spaces between the words, holding on to a choke with the precision of a darkstar.

- You'll make it -

Patrons or participants? Viewer's discretion. Knuckleballs.

"Man, it rocks into you like a saltwater eclipse." Slowly overcoming the original whole until ... blackness. A narcoleptic lifestyle, sleeping through sudden changes, waking up in the third person, waking up in writer's block. Waking up in people's block. Can't remember people anymore. Have we done enough to be saved?

The next morning is elastic, vibrant and full ... ... colors run into streaming gypsy-moth patterns across backyard garages, evergreens, winter roses. Reds stream Yellows stream Blues stream Green streaking chlorophyll tattoos in laundromat parlors, spring weddings, recycled pizza boxes thrown out as an offering to the nationwide consumer: "Meet me in four hours, it's a deal."

Three-seventeen, pm ... ... the smell of smoke just fading out of the corners of my eyes. Sunshine carpet stains. Shedding. "If I wasn't shy." Putting together a shopping list for tonight, tomorrow, this summer. Soon it's all three am and eighty-five degrees, sodium arc-lights and fruit flys, taking a stand-up piss in the back of the Damon's parking lot.
Where does it all go?
The time settles in a winter gridlock of soot stained snow,
sleeping sickness, sycophants. "I knew him first and I knew him well." Shoulders brushing at a sister's wedding, an insistent playground instructor hushes us all up to our burning shame and desire. Reddening fullness of an April sunrise.

Leave us to our little things, leave us to mourn the last time, leave us to rebuild ... ... poison the air silver with modesty, smooth feelings rebanded and beaten, doctored and measured. Bleed in a canvas of faulty coloured metal. Commission a fahrenheited summer, controversy, skin-soaked echoes. Speak the speak of cry, artistic thick over syllables. Leave us to our little things, the little things we have for ourselves, the little secrets of burned mercurial pleasure.

Leave us these little things and we will yet be free.

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