anti heros

sometimes
we get puffy;
watch a show
and imagine plots
that never seem to end.

we want to win every once in a while
and be lean as a hero.

but
when the credits are written
we are scared shitless,
like baby worms before grown birds.

it's then
that we champion rewind
as just another category for survival.

anchor hitch knot

it's a tiny ship
constructed from a beer can.
you take a breath
and place it in the ocean.

it doesn't sink.
it follows you along the shore
and you have dominion
over the wind,
over the water's edge,
over this construct
that doesn't seem to end.

you look away
towards the surface of the land
and everything it contains shimmers.
the sound you hear
is just a lullaby
from an empty belly.

you fall asleep.

you wake up.
the ocean is still there,
but all that is left is the rope
from a life preserver
that isn't there.

design and review

we are all patterns
of the same junk.

we are strung from
the same clumsy hands
that result in
the design of knots.

we are wretched.
we are brave.
we are blind.

the wind
kicks us in the teeth
and all that we have left
is sharp bone
and the calcification
of everything that remains.

before there is light

we enter this life
on the back
of a box of matches.

everything is dark,
and that's silence enough.

we search for a sound.
we search for any speck of light.

we search for the comfort of shelters
where we can slip inside
as we wait for the friction
of god to occur.

a bottle

there is an new world
inside this bottle.
ships sailing to distant lands
without any paths,
in search of everything
but the treasure.

if you're lucky,
the sky is your friend
and the seas make your stomach warm.
you just hope that all the pirates
are asleep in their caves,
fat, from a previous plunder.

finally,
the noise grows to nothing but a murmur.
you lie down on the deck,
at the front of one of these ships
staring like a bug at the sky,
unaware of a hand
reaching for the bottle.

"as above, so below"

here we go again,
shooting for stars
within our arms,
within the glass bottles
of the universe.

we are stuck here,
glued within complicated philosophies
that none of us will ever understand.

we were never astronauts,
just a hierarchy of moles
making tunnels out of space.

one hand on the wheel

within the weight of lines
there is enough frustration
to build a boat.

we load this boat
carefully
with the finest objections the spirit can find.
when the water is heavy enough
we set sail, blazing oceans
like a row of ants underneath a magnifying glass,
and then

before we know it,
one of the masts has been set on fire.