sorry for the (imminent) delay folks but the pilot committed suicide this morning

and we found his body in the flower bed. laying face down with ferns poking at his neck and the weeds tickling his bare sides. he snuggled deeper into the increasingly warm earth as he drew and exhaled his final few breaths. ruby red trickling down from his temple and decorating his soft skin before pooling in the fertilizer and dirt. his hands were loose and lost loves in his back pocket. the sun will only get higher as the spring air dries up any last thirst and any last answers.


wishing (you) well

"you are my stranger i don't care what they say"

she smiled and waved
i smiled and waved back
it was short and probably meaningless but it made everything feel ok for the next couple of minutes
she smiled cause she know show much i miss you
and i can only hope to god she saw right through me smiling back cause it was fake as hell.
and if she saw, then she'd know my whole life has followed suit.
and she knows why. she knows youre the golden ticket
i wonder if she went home saying "you know who i ran into today?"
"you know i dont really talk about it"
but im sure if she asked you'd talk for hours.
same with me.
sighing at the trees in your front yard, they've gotten so much bigger.
looking out from your windowsill, and yeah it's gotten a lot more crowded.
the doors always locked, but only on the left side.
the porch we'd never use,
with fall's leaves, water stains, and chipped paint.
you'd touch each town in sepia if you could.
"lying is the currency of the world
and i'm the richest in the land
youre my little secret
and everyone else is just missing out
they dont know how good we had it, kid
taking the long drive home today
cause fuck. i can't afford to miss another second..

madness takes its toll, please have exact change

he has a story wrapped up inside him
and i want to listen.
i honestly do
i can’t find you through words or actions
and i know i might never
but that doesn’t mean i won’t
(spend the rest of my life trying anyway)
his pen runs out of ink,
but that’s okay,
because i have a collection of the ones he likes
(with the soft grip)
in a shoebox under my bed.
i have reds and greens and blues,
because i know sometimes he likes his pages to be colorful,
like the pigments would somehow bring life to the words
even though i know he does that himself
lying beneath the trampoline in backyards,
watching the sky move through the black screen above us.
at peace. nothing to fix.
shes always there in the dark corners of my mind,
hidden by thick layers of dust
and entertained by mice and spiders.
almost invisible. almost being the keyword.

a bedouin soundclash type three days

i dont even know why im saying all this... guess its because i wouldnt be able to if you could hear me

"Be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high. Then life seems almost enchanted after all."

you’ve got the spark i've been looking for

when the time calls for looking on the bright side, you’re the first one i think of…but maybe friendship doesn’t look the same from both sides. maybe i'm just not your bright side.

and sometimes i feel like there is no escaping you

"Great things are not done by impulse, but a series of small things brought together."

van gogh
painted in anguish and self-taught

something small for low key hearts

i've got your love notes in my top drawer, baby

words lost or ruined between head and fingers
first thing you said to me "words actually limit our expression"
from there i should have predicted the rest
(the understanding makes up for the inability to communicate)
how the disease would progress and whether there was a chance of recovery
a prognosis (nocebo vs placebo)
something to split hair over
running out of escuses like running out of hell
putting words in your mouth and putting words to rest
underground veins and loves in an invisible city
jaywalking through crossroads
windows designed less like opporunities and more like protection (draw the curtains, if i dont see it, it doesn't exist)
peer through and you just might see something you like
you're something i'm glad i didn't miss
we're laughing off comparisons to the city and your insides
how "sirens can be both good and bad"
explain that one to me
"how love can kill and save at the same time"
heartbeats like car horns or gun shots
(the occasional accident made or injury taken)

she talks like you were the filth inside of me and she's finally scrubbed me clean. doesn't know that you might have been the last bit of me that was worth anything
doesn't know that you might have been my last shot at something i could be proud of
a battle of "your enemy's enemy is your friend" vs "sleeping with the enemy" shes a part of me you'll never know
and i'd say "but i just can't let that go" but to you it's over and done with.
if there is one fucking thing i'll stand by is saying i'd never give up.
and i have in a sense but i smile whenever i picture your bright face
like its exploded inside me but the pieces are still there (you can still make out a few dates, words)
but you don't get it. and in a secretitive way i dont want you to.
keeping special things close, keeping fear closer
chained hopes from getting up
wanting, needing..but at the same time being ok
like an abusive relationship with you in my mind
(holds me down and beats me up)
she doesn't want me to hurt
and sitting here its a heartache to think you're only in my mind.
how the keyboard keys stick and the backspace is hesitent to delete errors (in judgement)
reading my mind from right to left
the first time i saw you through a shopglass window and not face to face (like losing something you love to something you hate)

an escape from LA studios and words like veins return blood to the heart

postcards slipped under doors. empty footsteps and the key comes a little too late. a story that is hard to start.

ninety nine monster vs mystery ma(d)n(ness)

and it mean nothing to you
but the world to me

how easily people can appear more like numbers than figures mixes with late night thoughts and if this could stop on its own it would

persistency can be an annoyance or a blessing (thank god shes got a polygraph for that mind of hers)
we're nothing but complicated with words that weave a tangled web
its written in my head somewhere i can't manage to look that far back
i don't think i ever heard you say that before
"i dont think I ever meant it.."
shes not dead shes lost shes not dead shes lost shes not dead shes lost shes not dead shes lost shes not dead shes lost shes not dead shes lost shes not dead. gotta keep reminding myself that you're still around. even though it pains me to remember and even though it might save me to forget (i could never)
and the years have passed like the dead pigeons you never see in the city
and i wonder if you think about me so much that it hurts my brain
and i wonder if we could ever be the same
if this will turn out like a battle scar, one that you might forget or just get used to. could turn out to be a good story to tell or one that we dont want to talk about.
just like i've gotten used to the feeling of "one for all" instead of "all for one"
they're really the same (when put together) and thats probably the idea alexandre dumas had in mind.
like celebrity couples who become household names but when the papers are filed, seperation is more of a who? instead of a why or how or when.
and i wish i could explain it all but i'd rather you figure it out on your own (thats what you did to me)
and i'm sure guilt will be the death of me.
and if green ever met blue..
and tomorrow (or today if i get to sleep) is friday and that means i'll get home and shower, stare into the screen long enough to see if you got home safe last night.
and the thoughts i think are sick and i'd have myself behind the bench in a second if i could but i'll wait it out and make a few phone calls. start replacing "hello stranger" with "its me are you there"
we'd listen to gary jules and talk about the ninety-nine monster.
this could go on forever (apply to whatevers necessary)

lacta.alea.est
(youtellme)

"you only got one life to live baby girl, you gotta make it right."

“things are really going to change now.”
how
“its gonna be alright.”
none of this is real
i can only hope you aren't naive enough to believe it all.
this isn't real
this isn't real
this isn't real
neither is this or this
or even this word or the ones after it
or the ones i'm typing now.
you'd complain about the wind in your hair (yeah we're running through the open front door and there might be shattered glass on the side walk) but I'm thinking yeah your death might just be airborne
i hate it but i'm addicted
i hate the process but i follow through
hurts so good

thepromise
andthepauper

for the lonely bell ringing between ears, for the lonely being kept conscience by tubes and needles with a call bell and stitches in their ears

drum beats replacing heart beats, guitars, veins, words, thoughts
sometimes its good to just forget
feel the reverberations through your bones
like a built in speaker in your ribcage.
tremble and exhale to calm down
haven't heard it this loud in a few days
forgotten how much i love it
not listening, living and letting it come through you
no thoughts to further poison your mind
(it's so distracting you dont want to miss a beat)

"I thought it would be a good thing... I just wanted you to smile again." Anything to elicit a whine and a holy shit. Wouldn't even know what to call it anymore.

actanonverba