My sacrificial slam from this friday, performed with a fever coming in waves-- the source of some interesting commentary and facial expressions on my part, so I hear.
I can't tell what you're thinking when we're this far apart and my turn signal's blinking in time with my heart and I'm inking my skin and ready to start something. I've been waiting, creating, making up words and bating fate with possibilities too perfect not to go wrong and too wrong to be real, tapping out words on the side of the wheel and the mirror and the door; I can't tell what I feel, is this fear anymore or just hope for a future I cannot discern or regret for a past too close to return and
do you know me, really, and have I changed. Or am I just as deranged as I always was, regressing, obsessing as always because I care, so much, and sometimes there's so little to care about and sometimes it's so big I can't let it out of my head, can't even recall all I've already said--
My turn signal's blinking in time with my heart, I picked at my life 'til I picked it apart into layers exposed without a clear start or an end, or a means, just thousands of scenes in the space in between... friends... caught with a chance I can spend, or dream-- Yes, caught in the place a thousand roads intersect attempting to map where the future connects with the past and the last time I stopped here and tried to decide who I am who we are who we have been so far, to open my windows and eyes to outside, to try to get out of my mind, out of this car.
I can arrange any words to say anything, ideas not many heard, songs not many sing-- for good reason!-- for the difference between new/ and unique. It's just something I do. It's just language leak. It's not words that are true, it's just words that I speak. And I crave truth. It's the heart of my craft. The base of my scribbles. The reason I draft-- anything you'll see from me. And I know truth. I remember its face. Though it moves all the time, though it's different each place, though it's so hard to see, to find, to draw from my mind, to isolate into a phrase; these days truth is rare, is small, if it's there at all, caught up in words and wants and ways to fall. Or forget. Because I've found a space between recall, and regret, and returned to the place where I thought I was done, where I bet your voice against my choice, and won.