Status: This is only up temporarily; Once I have enough feedback, it shall vanish.
Bloody Feet
And burning pastures...
If I ever had a home, it lays in pieces along the road.
Discordant slews of brick strewn carelessly down the I-80.
Child prints echoing on the slick black-top, illuminated by passing, gracing headlights.
And the shadows.
Instead of painting peeling walls, they creep across the desert of the highways when the sun grows weary of shining and our bodies sizzle within this speeding truck.
They devour the parts of ourselves that fall away so easily to the asphalt. Like meat from cracking bone above lusting fires.
The shadows grow longer in the night. Those times when Dad would tempt the black horizon with the gas pedal and Mom would tempt his unforgiving hands...
Sobs and desperate peals of laughter haunt glimmering gravel and distant jabbing shapes against dusky skies.
If I ever knew a place where I saw myself in gleaming, singing memories more than any other, then it would likely be between neon strips of white and yellow paint.
My feet can't seem to make sense of cool, cedar floors and cushy carpet that would drink in this pain if I'd let it. Too used to charred ground...to burning soles and flashing, golden streaks of interrupted prayer.
The sound of rain on windshields than windows...
Walls and ceilings spin and twist before my nervous, darting eyes; the blur of luminescent white plaster every once in a while giving way to dark, jagged figures and even sharper words that etched themselves into an equally rugged part of me.
No, it's the lurch against uneven pavement; the familiarity of a cage of glass and steel; the odd sensation of this world - these blue skies wider than open screaming mouths, tar harder than fists and slamming doors - being crushed against these restless bones, that steadies me.
I inherited a slow agony and festering rage; a compulsion to ram myself into the skyline; break, shatter, crumble the ascending dark like a smile under Daddy's bad day. Take it in each hand. Feel for myself what it's like to destroy...
We are a family that aches. And only the bending of tendons and smoking rubber soothes us. For what could a house be, if none of us has ever seen the good of white walls? Bones weren't made for things so stoic and solid, anyway. But for things fluid, instead.
Like flesh and muscle. Like wax.
And like candles, we burn. Like slaves through burning fields in the night, we run.
...The faint starlight...the silence of an empty, desert road, always seem too welcome.
Discordant slews of brick strewn carelessly down the I-80.
Child prints echoing on the slick black-top, illuminated by passing, gracing headlights.
And the shadows.
Instead of painting peeling walls, they creep across the desert of the highways when the sun grows weary of shining and our bodies sizzle within this speeding truck.
They devour the parts of ourselves that fall away so easily to the asphalt. Like meat from cracking bone above lusting fires.
The shadows grow longer in the night. Those times when Dad would tempt the black horizon with the gas pedal and Mom would tempt his unforgiving hands...
Sobs and desperate peals of laughter haunt glimmering gravel and distant jabbing shapes against dusky skies.
If I ever knew a place where I saw myself in gleaming, singing memories more than any other, then it would likely be between neon strips of white and yellow paint.
My feet can't seem to make sense of cool, cedar floors and cushy carpet that would drink in this pain if I'd let it. Too used to charred ground...to burning soles and flashing, golden streaks of interrupted prayer.
The sound of rain on windshields than windows...
Walls and ceilings spin and twist before my nervous, darting eyes; the blur of luminescent white plaster every once in a while giving way to dark, jagged figures and even sharper words that etched themselves into an equally rugged part of me.
No, it's the lurch against uneven pavement; the familiarity of a cage of glass and steel; the odd sensation of this world - these blue skies wider than open screaming mouths, tar harder than fists and slamming doors - being crushed against these restless bones, that steadies me.
I inherited a slow agony and festering rage; a compulsion to ram myself into the skyline; break, shatter, crumble the ascending dark like a smile under Daddy's bad day. Take it in each hand. Feel for myself what it's like to destroy...
We are a family that aches. And only the bending of tendons and smoking rubber soothes us. For what could a house be, if none of us has ever seen the good of white walls? Bones weren't made for things so stoic and solid, anyway. But for things fluid, instead.
Like flesh and muscle. Like wax.
And like candles, we burn. Like slaves through burning fields in the night, we run.
...The faint starlight...the silence of an empty, desert road, always seem too welcome.