01:42, November 27, 2017 (UTC)

Blood for the slaughter, cut red handed. Running on empty, no oxygen, only this viscous death blood, leaking out the face, the hands, always back to the hands, these hands

These hands don’t hold anymore. Letting go, adrift, found sunk, exploring post mortem, post life, anew, adieu

Dawn at six. Pink sky, clouds lit, smoke cloud, toxic rain, washing away everything, only sins remain

Porch looks down. Passes by wayside. Weight on a limb; going out on. Porch’s days only begun. Today’s some old day, been had before, drained to dry. Perishable time

Gone bad. Where’d it go? Falls back into reverie. To before this day. Snuck a smile, was it only a reflex? It echoes through time. When was it? That first time, thinking back, it was only perceived by reference, looking up from a book, smiled at to the back of the head. Bullet wound’s still leaking. That tingling sensation. They come out in waves, it comes in waves, these days, all interfering

Have to time it right. Cancel them out. Move onwards. How many times has this introduction been made? Every new person is déjà vu. Someone older, more worn, out & yet here they are, a new moment, to be filed away, duplicated, revised by everyone else

But it’s still there, carbon copy, back then when. Vultures in a tree, their looming presence, unrepeatable moment unobserved as it’s taken down for later review, where it’ll be pretended that it was experienced, but it wasn’t, only written down & passed around like a snuff film or some afternoon thrill sight on the job

These details, their fidelity, crisp & rhythmically timed, pace of heart at that point, way it varied by day, these pieces are to be revisited, other observers discarded these points, but losing those points, it becomes pointless, some blob with new details applied in order to keep the story straight

Dreams are just these records getting mixed up. Imagining how it’d’ve panned out if some key pieces had been put elsewhere. If the camera had panned over to information then there now lost. Lost in reverie

But now Porch is here, taking this step, the stranger’s past, stranger things have passed, when the first word was said, all the lies, these histories are a series of amendments annotating wrong, wrong wrong. Perceptions wrong. Illusions cast from shadows. Glitches in understanding

Just make the next step. The stranger had a brown coat, sun tanned, curls, buckled boots, sidebag, glasses..

Glasses on the table. Hexagons. Round top. Textured glass. Tinted green. Refracts on the windowsill. Memory clear, but it happens, against will. This is determinism. The past is deterministic. The present will soon be the past; deterministic

& this second step, it soon will be the present. Will the sole’s slight shifting as the weight pushes it against the cement be perceived? Put on record for all time? Will the cigarette butts be immortalized? Their deflated former selves, once ripe to deflate the lungs of their consumers

Time goes on, leaving Porch behind. Or maybe everyone goes on, leaving time behind, besides Porch, still here, this moment, it hasn’t evaporated, left to be forgotten, to be repeated unknowingly

But time did go on, all that has passed, these archives now can be reflected on with footnotes made referencing the future. That’s the difference between memory & experience: in the former one relives it knowing what happens next. Drained of all surprise. Vital to remember the uncertainty, the misconceptions, the faux pas

They all lead to laying by this trickling stream, blood flowing away, each painful movement echoing itself into the perception of the next. Foliage masking moonlight. Stream gurgles, as if it were new life, idly flowing on away from this deathful

Next step being taken. One step follows the other. Eventually Porch’ll reach the convenience store. See if any of the chips are appetizing

The bag crinkles, & then air pressure has the indent swirling around, an inverse bubble. Catch up to this moment, the anticipation, then the anticipation had to be lived through, it had to pass, even if Porch wanted the moment to go on, to only have to come upon the moment where the bag pops, emptying the trapped air. Now, in reflection, reliving this anticipation is optional

A sharp pain pierces memory. Interrupts before it can relive the sweet vinegar taste. Acid on the tongue, melting away the surrounding environment, eyes shutting as the experience focuses in on the fake tomato taste, having to decide whether to let the chip melt or crack

Eyes are open. Looking at bloody hands. When was this? Maybe now. It’s becomes hard, the linear basis of past memories, mixing with present memories. Everyone bleeds the same, warmth seeping away, this does not change with time

Blood’s in my head, blood’s on the floor

All I’ve got is this bad blood to give

Now there’s only handfuls of blood

Flood my body deathful, spiteful

Scorpion whiplash, sucking me dry

Scorpions’ve got my mortality in a vice

Don’t cry for this poor sod out of luck

Porch’s mind echoes on in chorus. Never ending as it raises up the line, be it hiding in a closet, running down a moonlit path, or laying here by this flowing stream. Some cheap imitation Styx

Two feet off the floor, breathing’s getting heavier, heart is starting to race, trying to rush oxygen it doesn’t have, the breathing begins to gasp & moan, eyes feeling heavy, hands grasping aimlessly, it could be anything. Anticipation’s rising in excitement. Just needed a little kick

No ghosts in these crystal clear etchings. Alive in stasis. Sharp surfaces reflecting future onto present, or is that passed, it’s all perfect, regular structure, nothing to change when falling back to that time, each action grows from the last, striking back onto that time vibrates with a perfect tone, each moment’s stuck on the same frequency, pitch the sail to traverse these clear waters

No dark depths sheathing sharks, bleed freely, melting into the underbrush, only place to hide is behind reflections

So Porch could see this was going to be fine. Telling present from past, it didn’t really matter, just a matter of perspective. The sun would rise again, warmth would bring breath more easily, put things into perspective, it’s not so bad. Some croaking moan would catch the attention of a stranger wearing black jacket wearing blue tipped lapel. Blue hints all down the legs, really brings out the colors of their veins. There there

How long have you been here? / Always / Are you feeling okay? / I can’t feel my legs / Can you move your toes? / I can’t feel my legs / Everything’s going to be alright / It’s cold down here / How’d you end up down here? / I’m sinking back / What are you thinking about? / Sinking / About?

Into the depths, a blinding light, “What do you see?”

It’s a narrow road, not so much because of it’s actual proportion, but because of the trees along the street, closing in, hiding away the powerlines, the drawstrings of this period, packing everyone together, no matter how far. It’s that odd time of season where leaves are collecting in the streets as debris, yet there’s still so many on the trees. Cars are parked along the street, making it seem more narrow, everything’s being tightened together, an elder child’s standing by, this moment is suspended, suspended by the waiting. Most moment flicker by, no time for exposure to burn into the mind, a keepsake, a notch in the timeline. Reaching for something to pass the time, to move on to the next moment, “Don’t step on a crack,” it’d be easy enough to walk carefully, but instead it becomes a matter of leaping, of risking failure, seeking distraction, but everything is kept aware, risk does not gather attention from the faux wood paneling on the long nosed vehicle across the street. Stretched out along this narrow road

Crack. Enter asymmetry. Off kilter, into helter skelter, lies lie there, escape hatches from these lines of thought, escaping through the cracks, need to make it back, before the bus arrives, chewing on the seat, looking out the window, reading signs aloud, window obscured by signage. Need to get off this bus, before the moment comes around, where the tupperware container is thrown over the fence, the parabolic ascent, descent, setting the accent of this experience

It was easier to come out of the body when it was so small, the escape came by nature, identity was still tapped into the surrounding environment, these objects, holding their place, objective memory, tapped into the underground wires, feeling the world flow, streaming in & out, this body only a sieve

Now they’re lifting Porch up, rising to the occasion, didn’t get a number, some identifier, if only Porch was still tapped in, then like tendrils they’d be entangled, never lost. But it’s too late, born into an entity which feeds off the land, now there is only this blood feeding the land, trickling away, until this body will shrink & Porch’ll once again be out of the body, into the nether

Really liked that black jacket

But there’s no time for that. Now Porch is confined, bedridden, doped. They won’t allow for escape. Some kind of investigation, wanting to get the story straight

Straight dope. But eyes shut, light glaring on through the eyelids, trying to occlude the perception. There’s no need to cooperate. Soon enough these soft sheets will be cast off, the buildings will crumble, ashes of rust. Porch sees through it all: this bed is a metal cage, sheets thrown over, but it’s all clear, no x-ray eyes necessary. People lying bored, tired, adrift. All being washed down the drain, feed the fish to feed the ducks to feed the world, feeding the future. Tape feed. That’s all this is. Porch can hear the ringing whine overlaying of a cassette recording, focusing in on it, it was quiet first, but now it’s volume has drowned out everything, despite not having raised in volume, only it’s share of awareness

The cassette pauses. A face is hidden behind a mask, a mask disguised as being for sanitary purposes, but it’s only there to hide the truth, to hide the identity behind it from being pierced into, even the eyes peering out from behind it, through the crack, are hiding behind a pair of square glasses, lightly rimmed

How did you become injured? / I was always injured / But your latest injury: was it the result of a preexisting condition? / There is no preexistence / Were you on any drugs? / I am now / Please try to answer my questions clearly. You have nothing to fear / Many find nothingness a fearful thing / Do I make you uncomfortable? Would you like to talk later? / Fake comfort, fake talk, fake later. Not now, not later, not… / You seem tired, get some rest / …rest assured, tired of resting. You seem some, not whole

& out. Four in the morning, snow swept, entrance sided with twiggy trees. Bolt past them, through knee high bushes, running up that hill, feet marching to keep from slipping, through the foliage, past apex, rushing down, picking up feet to stop friction from tripping, only to trip as the hill ends with a short wall. Feet landed, but inertia keeps the body moving forward, rolling along the pavement

Looking back, what had spurred that action? Why start off from the walkway? Spontaneous action produces memories missing pieces, there’s nothing to be remembered, only some break from the boredom, the elation of being outside, & pain in the gut from taking that fall, new blood from sliding against the salted pavement, shoulder is stiff, body is limping, muscles shaken, nerves refusing to execute their commands, some form of rebellion

These are the moments that keep one in the present. That keep one coming back to the past for more. Chuckling out of breath

Vomiting out of breath. Nausea comes in waves. Closed eyes only feel worse, falling inside, not having a grip on reality assuring groundedness. Surroundings become vapid as stomach clamps and out hurls more fluids. Empty body empty mind. Leaning against the wall, seeking rest, thinking: another?

17. Another? Hit me. & they did

Laying in the back, trying not to bleed on the faux leather, risk breathing life out of this body & into the existence of the back seat of a car, no mouth to groan out this pained existence, no eyes to see this final fate. But the blood keeps flowing, drops like breadcrumbs, back to that bloody origin, all the other fluids cleaned away, only some left inside, but the bleeding never stops. Might as well be some inanimate object in the back, conversation passing along as if it were so: Where do we drop ‘em off? / Jo’s place no good, Marcy? / Out of town / Doesn’t mean their place is, don’t have some spare key under the mat? / Kids are all off on their own now / Hell.. & here we are having to babysit Porch, the fool / Only getting worse, effects of entropy rotting in on that clockwork mind back there

Porch tries to raise some protest, give some guiding direction to how this is going to all work out in everyone’s favor, but only some groan is raised, an assertion of a conscious entity gripping onto its identity

Why if you’re making a mess of my back back there, check on ‘em, is it a mess? / Yeah / Not taking ‘em back to our place, in a state like that, getting too old for this shit. Porch, I don’t owe you shit / Calm down– / I’m calm, do I seem not calm? You want to see not calm? Tell me to calm down one more time, go ahead

The voice had been becoming louder, despite Porch feeling more distant, falling by the wayside. But a silence had flowed into the vehicle, flowing through the light night traffic

& then stopped. The sound of passing air stopped. The motion, the bumbling, the doppler effect of a passing vehicle. Only the bloodflow went on

Drop ‘em out here, get someone else to check up in the morning / You sure? / Porch’ll be fine; it’s a flesh wound / Porch’ll freeze / Nah, morning’ll be around in a couple hours, it’s been a long night. I’m through with this / For fucks sake

Meagre protest. Porch slumped out on their own volition when the door opened. Walking by the driver’s door, thinking to walk on, the door opened up beside & knocked Porch off balance, tumbling down the hill beside the bridge, hearing the sound of the vehicle gunning off

Clouds adrift, some eternal lava lamp, on a global scale. These instances contribute little entropy to its process. Only aggregate dissipation, waste product of these interactions, discarded. Days continue, like this old day. One step after the other. Before the next. Glancing into street store windows, faint reflection, saint redemption, lights passing by, white shining between streaks of color, black red red black blue black black black green. Dullened by glass, image mostly passing through

This is the full experience, every experience framed in long exposure, background brought into focus, no delineation of extraordinary from ordinary. No revisions to clarify intention, cast hero from villain, spread out the wrinkles. This is only that

Porch is standing in line, not looking up at the menus listed above. Look once, stare forever. “Oh, Lai got stuck in the mud, took a good fifteen minutes for someone to stop & get ‘em out.” Glimpses pass the shutter, fragments of a wisp. Lines from a line. “If Reis ain’t givin’ me any shifts, I’ll tell, I know what you’re doing, you know.” The line steps forward. Shifting aside the customer breaks out. “I was like ‘excuse me, I’m right here,’ people like that just really bug me. It’s like they think everybody owes them.” Owe six twenty, thirty in change. Double nickle, double dime

“How do you want your cream cheese?”

Pink sky, cold air, a stranger approaching, ignored, but the internal rhythm is rising in volume, pluckings of a piano echo from within this emptying cranium, eyes feeling widened with clarity, like the pink is pinker, & now the stranger says “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” … “Nothin’.” There’s a stare off, their hair is gray, their skin no longer fair, somewhere past skin, skull, membranes, there’s an imprint of before, before color became gray, fairer times, before their eyes went hard & stopped seeing from either vantage. Light’s flip, feet are in motion, they’re left behind, their nodding head, their panning view, they’re onwards elsewhere, but now they know: Nothing’s going on

Blood trail goes back, to point of annihilation, impact sparked, without ignition, flames drained from this cold corpse, everything inside it dissolved, some fossil imprint left behind. Need to go back, find apex, find root, find event horizon, find found, find fixed point. This too shall pass. It has passed. Point of no return. Strike anchor, whip back, flicker fade, dithering out

These moments come without warning. Without prediction. Something inconsequential like a binding breaking away from the flat line along the shelf, plucked, flicked, a random passage: The glory of the past is riot, profusion, a chaos of flowers. & now the hook is set, the pages flip back to the beginning, until at last the passage is returned to, now with context. But no more beautiful days, points in time to take pause, flip back, reread anew. All ends the same

Flip back, read a line, & stop. Permutate: read a line, stop, flip back

Curled on a faded gray couch, emptied by some quick yelling outburst, turning inwards, into the emptiness, past yelling now some looping mutter: Hey, what’s up? / It wasn’t that wrong, edge case, playing out, it all follows / Would you rather draw it out? / No, fine, it’s all drawn in– / Drawing can help put things together. I’ll start: first there was a pineapple.. yellow crosses, all working green.. but then there was some blue, & it flooded all around / Yeah, it’s a nan, it propagates, making everything blue, so it’s a blue pineapple / That makes sense, feeling better?

Disjoint breaks mark reality from collage. They’re all memories now. Scattered out of reach, propagating their memory of each other, white washed paean

Back to narrow roads. No cracks, asphalt by asphalt, green & black, red sky, back to swing sets, into daylight crowds, but it’s quiet after, fields emptied, heat is gone. Flick book seeking some hook. Opening at random to pages most often opened at random. Back to the vultures in the tree, little blots amongst branches, like a kind of tree fungus, until wings are spread, leaping from branch to branch. No sound: ominous air was perfectly held. As if these birds knew their part to play

Face against icy cement, that moment where mind breaks from body, realizes this is only some biological mechanism, but trapped in here, only purpose is to dial the mechanism forward, only difference is being the internal nexus where inputs become outputs to outputs, some outputs input to later outputs, some network of impulse, too tangled to be instant, too tangled to escape into action, some outputs getting lost inside the mechanism, too faint to exist in the perceptions beyond

Back to the back seat. Street lights fading in, fading out. Houses hidden behind shade of trees. Small walk ups occassionally, their parking lot lawns, mostly vacant. Street light light reflecting off specks in the night. Chunks of dust, or insects?

Green grapes, by handfuls, some craving. Ingesting new you. Old self mostly breathed out. Like a culture: old die, young grow, indoctrinated. Those grapes, back then, were reconstituted, indoctrinated into the stories of their predecessors, & have since passed on, passed on their own story, of being consumed, their story is only partial, no one retells of their digestion, only that rationally it occured, that part of them was culled, rejected. But we are all rejected eventually

Back to Jo’s. Laying out on a couch, coughing, ejecting old self in fits. “Sound like you’re going to cough up a lung,” they’d said, jerking their head forward a bit on the last word, “Why my fridge’s full, I’ll have nowhere to store it. I’ll go turn up the stove–” rest of the words never imprinted, as another series of hacks & gasps take over sensory input. Porch’s coughing dies down enough to hear them go on, “I wonder, if perhaps we might’ve met some time in the past, unaware, just passing by each other,” Porch thinks back, all those passing faces, their duplication throughout memory fitting along Zipf’s Law, just think: how many of these faces are so much older from before, that they’re unrecognizable? Generations of indoctrinated cells have veered off into some new structure, some new body, forgotten their past form, revised their history, so Porch answers: “I didn’t get out much”

Somewhere things went from wondering if somewhere in the further past there was more experiences shared, time not reeling them in fast enough, dredging the past, to now, where there’s no more to reel, only wishes that was wasn’t

Hunger’s creeping in. Need to focus on the present. Let it happen. Inevitably it will be was. Need to pull in to that convenience store, reach the counter, make the purchase, get that vital convenience, life spring, if only there were time enough for that pneumatic pop

Hitting on brakes. A moment of flight as body delays to brake too. “Fuck me, Jesus Christ! They didn’t even signal!” All flowing past, burgundy vehicle escaping horizon, horizontal gravity pressing back, a blip, a glitch, everything’s resumed, only latent adrenaline, summoned needlessly, like rats in a cage, running from nothing, running to nothing, so it goes. In all of this clouds have kept their pace, trees are still blowing in the wind

Pulled back now. Can’t focus on staying here, can’t focus on staying back then, fading out into timeless continuum, some alley citizen’s walking a little shit of a dog that’s pulling at the leash, eyes bulging, yipping away, legs all tensed straight, so straight it’s like the rodent’s bouncing on the pavement, no shocks

Legs straightening from that shock, that autumn period where the leaves are gone, all brown, greys & browns, & in all of that still a spark. Blackened flesh to dust, no pain, no blood. Only later, that burning sensation along the arm, vibration, muscles taught tight, night light flash light, now back in the darkness only the green purple ocscillation, imprint of that moment, scarred on rods & cones, scarred into neurons, imprint itself scarring, & now scar scarring

“Not now.” spoken for “Not ever.” Ever before, ever after? Losing those moments, “Come look at this bug”, but next moment is gone

White belly, black line crossing from mouth, ending half way. Kicking its feet, reaching the back feet back, trying to flip aside, but it didn’t evolve for these flat conditions, body pivots up against smooth surface, not enough strength to press up on posterior in order to finish the flip. The legs are so thin, it seems as if they’ll break off, like twigs, no goop will come out, it’ll just no longer be an insect, some five legged thing, stuck on its back. But legs stay on, it stops moving. It’s reached a stable state. Time passes. Finally it’s regained energy to resume this futile activity

Upside down in pond water, paddling around, & now on finger under inspection, legs reach out, clamp around finger, stinging, numbing

In the gap between concrete stairs & door, an ant falls, struggling to break from crack, reaching to try pry out, crushing guilt

Snail shell flaking off, peeling it all away, left to die, but now it was known: they aren’t slugs. Death sentence informed by some older fellow

There’s a series: those times where one will see a line of ants, & then up ahead, a pool of them, all crawling about, something somehow calling them all together. Walking along sidewalk seams

June bugs clinging to screen door

Waiting in a car, waiting to cross border, a couple of flies buzzing about, fucking

It use to be so easy. “Can I get you anything?” Jo’s asking, before having oriented to the entrance’s disorienting composition of closet straight ahead, kitchen to the right, some sort of dining room living room hybrid to the left. Shrugging as if to take off coat, but it’s too weird, lighting is wrong, so the coat stays on, back’s straightening, it never works, this gesture, it never completes a magic trick: volume becoming nothing, vanishing into a wall, somewhere tight & dark, gasping to breathe, but it’s good, because then there’s only this small world where all that matters is making another breath, once, twice, thrice. Straightened like a beam along the wall

Missing dry wall, pink insulation packed between each dark red brown board, wires hanging out from a few, white & blue

Two feet off the floor, breathing’s getting heavier, heart is starting to race. At that point it’s hyperventillation & mind has become preoccupied by breathing, & all there’s to be done is to kick the chair. Nothing to it. But instead standing there, gasp & moan, eyes feeling heavy, hands grasping aimlessly, it could be anything. Anticipation’s rising in excitement. Just needed a little kick

Stuck thinking about that sun tanned, buckled booted, curled, brown coated, those glasses. Just make the next step. One step & then a sheer drop. Looking down at some old red head opening their face, smiling at some stranger out of sight, recognition, or licking chops for next meal. All red inside. It’s beginning to snow, or is this sounds of the city lighting up, white & red

“All I’ve got is this bad blood to give,” Porch replies, not so much forgetting who had asked the question, so much as never having realized it was a question to begin with. Jo’s moved on into the kitchen to the right, picking out something for themselves, asking Porch was just to cast an illusion, that this sequence of events would occur from Porch’s desires, not Jo’s needs. “There’s leftovers from Tuesday, should still be good”

It wasn’t always still good. Leftovers from back of fridge. Plants neglected out of sight. Apologies for instants since forgotten, internalized, no longer something to pull up from depths & lay out to dine on; instead some airy euphemism for a sin blotted like a sun, a second sun never seen, only felt, blistering, sucked dry

Curled up at the bottom of the tub, shower running, low rise, slow drips, a few fast streaks. Blood running down chin, down body, washed away

“When will you go bad?” Jo’s over stove, reheating, looking away towards spices, weighing their mood, which would compliment stale noodles best, but they heard, & they replied “Too late for me, parents should’ve shoved me in a freezer first thing”

Porch liked when Jo spilt some imagery out, casting thoughts back to dark rooms with doors open a crack, closing. Hiding in basement, cold, identity curling up into face, feeling small in this spaceless place. It’s cold down here. Lights up. A moment passes. Low thunk of glass on cement, “Shit,” beers spilt on cement, “You shouldn’t swear”

How’d you end up down here?

Lost for words, down there, looking up, kneeling, knees down, face up, blood rising, face flushed, eyes on chin, finger to tongue, soft flesh, hunger

Looking over array of flavors, trying to judge by slight crinkles which are least vacuous. Is this it? Glancing over at other brands. This hunger doesn’t care which flavor, yet Porch’s decisive faculties must make a choice, more ketchup?

Maybe Jalapeño & Black. “Want a drink with that?” Cos asks, out of sight, Porch goes to reply “Black & White”. They’re in a dim lit room, round wooden table, two thirds a meter in radius, cylindrical candle in a rectangular prism glass cage, black tin rooftop pointing up. Book scene conjured for Breakfast of Champions. Open eyes into fluorescent glare, so much light being shone on these aisles of dusty packaged foods, keeping the night outside. Cos isn’t here. Or Porch isn’t here yet. Porch was here, Cos was here. So the choice doesn’t matter here, it’s already been chosen, & it won’t feed this hunger

Time’s wasting away, entropy metabolising everything, world eater, bottomless pit of hunger. “Black & White” Porch replies. Ignored by pedestrian walking by in a white coat & tuque, half open. “Real funny, cut the crap, I’ven’t got all day,” Cos responds a moment later. “It’s nighttime”

Pink sky, clouds lit, queer brightness, contrast causes it to glow, as if brighter, a bed of coals, slowly roasting, save for coldness coming in, everything’s over, lukewarm entropy, no more burning away, only roasting

Porch looks down. Picks barbecue. Elm’s gone. Jo’s waited. “I always liked peach drinks with barbecue chips. We should try them with fuzzy peaches”

Sour sugar, mixes with gingerale, mixing around finger, clumping, ultra sweetness, conflicting sour & ginger spice. Bottom of the barrel, last call. Worth it for this byproduct alone

“Anything peach?” Porch asks. Jo’s back at fridge, “Nothing in here, had some pretty bad peach pecan liqueur awhile back tho. Impossible mix, some things only go on the rocks”

“Never in my life!” they’re yelling to nearby friends, “I swear, never in my life! There I was, never…” – “So what’ll it be?” face speaks, lighting up, not stopping for Porch to slip back into step with them

“So there I was, wires all out like that, yeah & just poof! Like that. Light was just gone”

Walking down stairs, half crescent, intending to go onwards, yet unexpected, but of course they were there, at the bottom, & there’s only eye contact now, knowing, approval & disapproval, acceptance of reality, yearning for irrealis, just hanging out, same place, another time

Landing back awake is well practiced now, part of recurrence, that wondering at how comfortable déjà vu wasn’t recognized during moment

Water’s rising, crawling along pavement like an ocean floor, excavating deposits of salt & cigarette ash. Iris in bloom. Anchor is both cause of perceiving this environment where one feels they’ll float away & of why Porch is floating away. Only sinking further into this hunger, gnawing from inside, life force crawling out. A thought back, to melting savory flavours on tongue, sweet & salty. Impression is present, but that nourishment has past, brings no dissolution to this encompassing hunger

Wake up from sleepless nights, years by gone years, nothing but a salted wound, left to blister in sunlight, seasons changed, but days all stay the same, can’t grow away, ash sprinkled leading back, back to that same moment, tracing lines through dirt, smeared by plowshares, only remnants of broken bones left standing, like in the hallway, peering between each other, still unphased, that synchronous resonance, no longer standing in same places with different times, good times & bad times

Caked in sugar, crystalized, like it fits in a timepiece, setting apart then & now, everything before was all at once, a big crash into the water’s rising, all juxtaposed together, like there once staged against concrete of sidewalk: used condom & a broken cigarette

Yeah, it doesn’t involve moving your core / When they said that, oh, I was livid, “you’re going to say that when your work sucks”

They’re walking out, saying “Sometimes, I do something, & I’m the greatest at it,” walking across street now with confidence enough to not look either way, it’s all the same either way, reality lived versus reality told

These play out, as if they’re unique, observed as some lone moment, yet reaped together, their duplicates, same moment recomposed, shuffling who’s whom

“You ate it wrong; should’ve started from bottom to top” Jo advises with that hindsight vision, foresight’s blind as a bat

Oh to eat, to salivate for that next meal, as opposed to Porch drowning here in their own spit, unable to swallow, not a crumb, only crumbling away piece by piece, dashed bit to bit, dash of salt, something to complete offering, so that might have something to burn through winter

It’s always winter, it thaws away, but still frozen back then, black couch against white snow, roadside trash, perpetual night, yellow street lights. They grow brighter now, whiter now, keep wake on, vigil over that night, that spung swing, trail’s all winding, disoriented still from birth to youth rebirthed, chum change stakes, nothing up for grabs but a few grabs