i was conscious of the refrigerator’s humming,
of the beetles wings clicking,
and the rain,
falling more like loose rocks and pin drops
a thousand cracks,
a thousand crashing reminders,
to listen before speaking;
to substitute my commentary
for brother i believe you
brother i can see you,
brighter than two million
glowing kitchen windows
passed on my walk home,
when i promised that tomorrow
i’d be less of myself,
i guess we talked before morning,
damnit,
can i swallow all that vomit,
and move trigger fingers from my throat
to the guns that fire love songs?
so i drew a deep breathe
and held it long enough to smother
the demons running rampant in my gut,
brother hear me:
you are not for sale,
even though my (love-for-self) is rich as hell.
walled with unfinished sketches and portraits,
or manuscripts of unpublished stories,
i’ll spend all my sincerety’s fortune
searching for the only ticket to your opening day,
or a swallowable printing press.
more like rough drafts
works in progress
scratched through with red pens and edits
like elementary school teachers' reminders to indent;
as if our reality's majority
was lived within the typos and the x’ed outs).
throbbing inside of barbed wire chests;
but i saw fence posts in the truck
and we both know empty fields to be therapeutic;
to meet half way,
to let our wildest - unfinished - touched up - ever changing -
missing color - missing words - dreams
collide beneath a florida sky,
and be what they are,
'called by their right name;'
tonight,
we’ll build new cages for aged fears
and promise to let them starve to death,
we never wanted to be shepherds of our own nightmares;
and if we start now
we can make it to the i'm sorries;
and still get to work by morning;
tomorrow,
we keep building.
brother,
i don’t have all the answers,
so only ask me if i love you,
because i do know that one.
