bathed in light.

driving in from the eastern side of town i raised my hand above the dashboard and drew a circle with my finger. in my mind i put the sun in the western sky, clearing up the haze that was distorting and diminishing the city.

the rest of the day the temperature rose, not like today. no rain clouds gathering in the badlands, no shifting winds to accelerate the afternoon. there was a chance for piece of mind in the calmness.

there were no hard pellets of rain to subdue my subconscious, there was no thunder to voice commands over the plains. the sun just shown in that same spot in the western sky, illuminating and warming the ever greening earth.

when the evening came, the sun resumed its course through the sky, falling down as a blanket of fireflies lifted to form the stars of the early evening sky. there was a pleasant breeze blowing hard out of the kansas basin, raising the temperature a few degrees ever hour as we slept.

she was there, freckles across her nose, evidence left from the sun i had painted in the sky. we slept intertwined and waited for the chariot to sing across the heavens and bring the morning light.

"what happens if the sun doesn't rise?" she posed absentmindedly as the night reached its deepest shades of purple and navy. she looked up at me with a face like a childhood dream.

"then i will paint it up again for you my dear, and the whole world will be bathed in light."

in motion.

the world is constantly in motion.
on this premise it would be allowable to conclude:
if you went straight up from wherever you are,
and managed to stay it that one place,
when you came back down you will have traveled.
great distances taken by stillness.

that has been on my mind a lot lately.
the concept of our lives in constant motion.
we have never seen the truly still,
objects at rest being hurtled through time and space.
strapped to the planet by a mystical force.
held down by what we do not see.

what would happen if we all got off?
took a break and stayed out of motion.
it's not possible they might say:
for in stopping you would still be traveling.
high above the clouds, watch the world spin.
and maybe, just maybe,
we could stay at rest for a moment.

we are all searching, we are all lost.
the answer can not be found in motion.

wrapped in fog.

i'm waking up from a concerta dream, the whole world wrapped in fog. i feel dazed, backing piano parts in electronica songs make me turn my head in time. i feel like an organism not capable of conscious thoughts. just a haze of fog rolling on the field outside of my window. my throat aches, too much hard living all ready has passed through these hands.
i would stand, but my feet would not know where to lead me. my only option would be to stumble apathetically until i would once again arrived back at a place of rest.
the grass is starting to have green low-lights on the lawn, it will have pushed through with one more rain. i can see the trees, still gray against a gun metal sky. soon they will be set on fire, but first they must bloom.
(what a life that must be. carefully growing your hair until the season ends, it has reached it's pinnacle of beauty, and then you go bald. this repeats until a man in flannel comes along with a sharpened stick and takes your life away.)
i am adrift in my own ocean. looking through the skies, surrounded in a calming fog on the dark but glassy sea. i could lie here forever if it wasn't for my own wandering soul.

i'm a stray dog, baby.
i'm a lone wolf, friend.
i'm the sun in the east,
and the cat call fiend,
washing his coat in the sand.

Co.rd.inates.

they are toasting the town just south.

they are fulfilling obligations to the north.

they are preparing to travel in the east.

they are starting fires in the west.

i wait here for my bones to not demand rest.

let's make some summer plans.

let's make some summer plans.

place our feet in the oceans and the gulf.

let's make some summer plans.

sunrise in bryce canyon feelin' like dog day heat.

let's make some summer plans.

bonfires built on the midwestern plains.

it could all really happen.

if we draw the outlines right.

tracing, placing: pins and pens on highway maps.

going nowhere soon.

i've been getting that itch again.
the one made of pavement switching lanes.
the temperature jumping only shakes me more.
as i pack the car with camping supplies and clothes.
but i'm really going nowhere soon.
the radio up to match the heat.
the horizons conquered as we pass on by.
the magic sundown as the stars creep in the east.
we would think at long last we were being set free.
but we're really going nowhere soon.
a short drive down 35 might help.
but i'm looking to make it further east.
i could dip my feet in the the western sea.
or try and take the badlands of the great plains.
but i'm really going nowhere soon.
just to the south you rest.
i could be in your driveway soon.
and we would pace the many gilded highways.
sleeping beneath the western stars and desert moons.
but we're really going no where soon.

spring.

spring is not a time for writing.
a time of new beginnings never is.
there are no shadows or falling leaves to expectorate about.
long drags from cigarettes fill warmed lungs.
exhaled in clouds wide enough to outline the new sky.
when the possibilities are endless.
eyes seep grand summer expectations.
hands busy themselves.
snapped back to life.
the rising temperatures thaw circulation.
stretching towards the sky, we realize we can grasp it.
the world is full of new life.
no hours for reflections about the meaning of time, space, direction.
just enough to longboard the neighborhoods.
letting the air kiss your face in anticipation of summer loves.
the preparations can now be made.
pull out the fire wood and clean out the car.
the roads and railways are about to open.
streaming with humanity in motion they go on.
clipping the horizon while constructing new landscapes.
hands will be held as breath stales in the lungs.
the parks and promenades slowly teem with anticipation.
in a month they will have constant company.
hundreds of starry eyed lovers walking hand in hand under the leaves.
the rivers rise in anticipation.
finally freed from the ice flow captivity.
as we watch the world around us, we know.
we finally grasp that the long winter is over.
no, spring is not a time for writing.
the time is now for all the dreams we dreamt in candle light.
under self-warming blankets on the darkest days of the year.
so throw off the sheets.
we can once again live the lives we dream.

warm and in good spirits.

it is an interesting day when a dream is finally dead.
walking through the doors to a room that was once filled with aspirations and hope. you look down, and then you realize that it was misguided at best to begin with.
it played back for me on the drive home, the shadows shifting stringent outlines as i coasted through the neighborhoods. all of it, a mass of colors swirling through a cut room of memory's silent films. the pieces floating away in a slow motion mocked by "baby, boomerang."
(the first day was there, the fresh white paint of first day classrooms smeared by the green argyle stockings that first caught my attention.
there was that first walk, a fall painter's canvas as she hurried to step ahead of me while i attempted to talk her ear off. i was excited to simply have the slightest of her attention. i knew i didn't have all of it, but i was hopeful that i someday would.
there was the night she gave did. the night i was the only thing in the world that she wanted. the night i wouldn't let her think she had all of my thoughts and hopes.
then there were the affirmations we whispered. dreaming up houses with broad lawns and small dogs viewed from porch swings during the magic evenings of early summer.)
i tried to turn my thoughts to things more prevalent, hoping that by sliding this experience out of my head i would be able to not have it happen so soon. i tried to bargain with myself, pleading: "there is still a month left, play your cards right and you can see what happens. spend some more time in her new neighborhood next year and see if it all comes back. make it happen, or at least don't let it fade away."
i turned momentarily, and then continued.
(the other boys, the late night phone calls, and the lights being turned on as my mom came in and asked if i was okay. they were all present and accounted for, but they rushed by, inconsequential in the larger scheme. i loved her for everything she was, i took heart in the hard times because i knew that someday it will be better.
there was the night in a cold, barren, basement where it did all get better. i played the beast to her beauty and the screen flickered as we talked with the television on mute. i gave her a book of "post secrets" with one attached at the end.
i barely recall what i spent hours laboriously creating, but it did end up making her smile in the end.
there was the conversations filled with clever plans for star-crossed lovers. thoughtful considerations of baby names, of dog names, of living just to be poor and in love. neither of us ever really wanted that, we both just thought it would make a good story for a later, better off day.
i played through the dark times. the promises to write when i moved back south to attend another school. the letter from her that sat on my desk all semester, taunting me as it went unanswered. there were the deceitful phone calls as we would both dash for dormitory stair cases to conceal the beers being shot-gunned in the showers and the girls laughing along with the movies.
then there was the end of it. this would be the low point, the left for dead scenario that we all hope to someday conquer in our lives. no words of conclusion from either party left the divide more open. those first few days with no phone calls from her and no courage to dial in my fingers were the worst. then they all started to slide together. days built into weeks that constructed months. the summer hit and still no words to break the silence.
i thought of those dreams a lot then. the house, and the dog, and the porch swing i mean. i tried my damnedest to get away from them and put my life in opposition to them. and as i was watching it burn, it pulled me. it made me come back out for the little bit of hope that was barely enough to light the fire.
i started to construct a plan to make it relevant again. then i executed it.
i considered the day i saw her again. freshly showered and shaved in my finest shirt i walked the mall, sweating from the july heat. i saw her at the center. she smiled and we made small talk as hundreds walked by, too detached to notice the incredible circumstance that was coming to a head.
we strolled and discussed our new lovers and then she hurried off, promising that she was excited to spend more time with me when she arrived back in the fall.
then there was the fall, fights at soccer games and let down expectations were paired with constant conversation of the dreams we once had together. it cast a dreary light over the falling midwestern autumn sun.)
that was when i started to realize that the dreams were dying. there is no hope left in verbal hallucinations that do not yield any limitation to reality. it started to become a drug, something we could use to get by at the end of the day to calm our nerves and liven the conversation. it was something we could agree on, and it was nothing more than a dream.
(finally, it cut to the desperate acts of a deranged pair of addicts. we started spending all of our time together in an upstairs apartment, watching cable television, holding a rented baby a couple evenings a week. at first, the thrill was incredible, and then it became everything.
the talks of dreams stopped. this was the present, and it was good enough to get by on. however, it would never be good enough to sustain.)
that's when i knew. last night, as i climbed those creaking stairs, i could feel the density in the air as i turned the corner and inhaled. it flickered on the windows alongside the latest mtv flavor of the month program. even when she handed me the small child, sleeping, and she settled into my chest, i could hear it in her breath.
the dreams are all dead.
perhaps they have vanished, haunting some other fortunate pair of young, uninnocent kids far away from these upper midwestern plains.
last night however, a blind man could have felt the emptiness of the glass jar that once held them. no houses, no dogs, no porch swings. just a couple of grown up kids who never wanted to make it on their own striving out into a colder world then they have known without the dreams of each other to keep them warm and in good spirits.