It's a Sunday and I've made it here

To the point of flashbacks and no return.

I am withdrawn from light

From self...

I am about to take up skydiving

And I'm hoping, praying

That since it's free you'll someday join me.

It's a Sunday and the world is still alive;

We're all moving but, man have we got

Fevers;

Fevers of intention that not one antibiotic

Can seem to cure this time around.

I've got the common cold this time

With a hint of danger

Where I might just down this bottle of cough syrup

And call it a day.

We've all got chills and itches,

But I don't my days hidden under woolen covers.

I know it might seem arrogant

But I want to rip these covers away

And ask you to stop paying for a sight at my scars.

Suddenly in the plummet, when you're staring down at my landmarks

I feel like a national travesty

Instead of a national treasure.

I know you'll find me behind the morning's curtain

And give me some cursory response of blatant

Repose, but

I'd rather be flying along the telephone wires

Then clinging the static when you call my name.

Greetings from the end of time, dearest.

It's not better when oblivion blankets me

But here....

In a storage closet of free falls

And indecision;

I know I have stripped down to the naked truth

And nothing can haunt me now whether or not

I decide to jump.

As to why the world rotates
but at the end of the day
the rotation knocks me off my feet but
keeps me spinning.
rotation, rotation, rotation



I'm going....

To fall off the face of this Earth with each spin.

The industrial revolution has begun again

And the cotton gins seek profit,

The children seek majesties in sun

But when the dust clears and we're clearing

This vast abyss of desert-

Gasping for water with every sandstorm well...

It just doesn't feel so prosperous.

I see the factories with their smoke stacks

And I see the women working hard-

Bringing in the penny for the savvy

Yet abusive counterparts and suddenly,

And industrialization feels like a jungle

Where the appendages take us in deeper

To the root of their bodies.

We all learn through example

But what happens....

When the wheels stop turning

Or the production line breaks down

And the Model T cannot be produced?

Weren't we...

Always behind anyway?

stop shouting to the man in the moon, dear
he sees your hollow eyes and wooden feet cause
you'll always be a disaster on the rooftops but,
standing like you do,
no one grins quite like you.
make sure you howl out how
you feel tonight;
let the universe hear your claim
before the constellations
form an allegiance and
go to the higher diety:
I'm a wolf with crimson canines
and this is just another piece of
mistaken banishment.

"I try on my blue shirt,
she told me she liked it:once."

I'd honestly, like it any day as long as there's a heart inside.