...is me this late at night on the dock, waves of sleep licking the poles, the cadence to rely on. and still i wind down in that hurt head place mixed mashed confusion in the frontal lobe, globe space and time, what planet am I even on? where you keep up and i keep time still standing from the car that wiped you off the pavement, must have been doing 50, your shoes blow off on impact: at that moment, you are sparks. straight from childhood to grown up, don't look down, real job, real life, real car, real world, except for the waking. Waking into clutching, clutching is holding on before the first morning breath, terror speaks loudest, no screams: not again. Fear meet rage, good to meet you before i destroy you, lets lock eyes, see if you can find the me i lost, the you, losing best what i want least to lose.
it's not rocket science you know.
it goes back to the pines, always back to the expanse of field dotted with thick pines and sap so fresh, the place of surprise - late afternoon i fear most the black sky about to open up, take me, I'm so far from the back porch, what does safe mean, barely see the barn from here, crackle of lightning, how dark can the day become, and the inchworm falls from the farthest branch down his silken string, my mouth agape, watching, lands on my tongue, real not dream, i spit and spit and run between bolts of so-white electric: which is worse, the worm or the storm? neither one, i find out; it's losing your daddy.
Eat worms, crash through static cascading flashes, but nothing compares, not really, to what gone means.
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