Line Breaks

How do you be more

                                                alive?

Being breath birds and bees bursting through my
                                    breast beating against my broken
                        battered heart.

            Looking out the foggy window,

                                                where is he today? I see him

                        around

dark broodingly handsome, but hardened,

hammered, hurt and hated

                                    loved.

Where is he today?

For that matter, where was he yesterday

                                                dead? murdered? last night he was flying
                                    in my dreams.

            but this

isn’t about him is it?

                        This is about rain and rainbows, resonance

and reason, review, rewind.

                                    Can I press the stop button now?

            Because I can’t seem to

                                                find it

                                                            anymore.

Wet water waits and whistles,

            watching.

                        I am the one watching now,

                                    his

paintbrush

            dipped and drenched in sweat and the

                        acrid smell of battery acid.

            Deprived

                        of

sleep,

                                    his strokes are

            rough and smooth in turn

                        twisting turning tigers in the dark,

and then

            fear.

                                    The rope isn’t

                        tied

                                    tight enough and this I know.

But still, I pull and pull,

            until he finally

                                                lets

                                                me

                                                go.

                        “You want to be free

                                                            don’t you?”

            Well, what on

                                    Earth

                        gave you that idea?

But he can’t answer because

                        I’m already

            running, racing, rushing

dashing dancing

                        prancing pouncing pacing

            running.

                                    But then, I haven’t run

                        …yet.

I expect it to happen soon enough,

            and then

                                    abstract accidental

                        alienation

                                                from the

            whole

            entire

            world.

                                    But this is all self-pity

                                                isn’t it?

                        Thank you for

            waking me up, Mr. O’Hara.

                                    I really

                                                don’t

                        appreciate it.

            Or do I?

                                    Because now I can’t stop,

ignoble irate inkwell of

            insensitive icebergs beneath the

                        surface

                                    of my thoughts where

I used to be able to hide,

                        haggard and gaunt,

                                                hidden

                                    from the world,

            which keeps coming up,

                        even though I really

don’t want it to

                                    because that’s just

                        far

                                    too

                                                much.

                                    Because,

where can you go?

                        Space,

                                    planetary patience pushing pillars

            of the Gods.

                        Which is something else

I don’t want to talk about.

                                                Because, well.

                                                            is there

                                    or isn’t there?

I can’t prove

            Anything

                        Anymore

                                    Anyone

                                    Anyway

                        Anyhow

            Any nothing.

                                                            This

                                                is how I stay “ more alive?”

                        I don’t

                                    think thoughts they’re their there

                                                is the answer!

            But of course, I’m lying.

I always am.

                        Besides,

                                                there is no answer.

            Pragmatic pessimism

makes me wonder why wolves won’t

                        any why whales float

                                    alone along the flotsam.

            Pacifists, every one.

                                                Wading, wretched weight of

                                                            writhing wasted war.

Biting burning breath of my

            Colt .45,

                                    flashing flaring fascinating fire

            bursting from my hand.

                                                Blood.

                        Racing rushing raging running red.

Death.

                                    Graveyards filled with

            famous people

                                                because, well,

                        we all die anyway,

and you don’t know where you’re actually going until you actually know.