i remember when things were easy.
like waking up
in a strangers bed
&walking outback for a cigarette.
like laying
facedown on the carpet
with headphones still on
&a spilled glass
or small hole
burned to give
lived-in character
to a place i called home.
no directions
&no complicated questions.
we could sit for hours
&move for minutes.
oh- when i think of the mysteries
solved with no real intention
of being answered questions…
the future as a wildly dull place
until we dreamt.
our glorified portrayals.
tones depicting some unexpressed
idea if only we could see it.
thats where we failed ourselves.
to recreate moments
that only existed on that floor.
in that bed.
i s'pose thats where we still fail.
but less &less now.
small gifts as realized thought.
realized dialogue that was crafted in
particular moments we were not together for-
but can describe with more detail
to retain every breath
between words
through notes &rhythms.
actualized to be realized with minimal
misinterpretation
yet still open for collaboration
enough to create
those pasadena alleyfights
&culdesac children
playing tricks on passerbys.
words almost take away
purity by describing something
unintended
though they still belong i guess.
we don't need em-
but we're not the only ones.
