I was near the end of the sky, i was not a ghost
i’m still written to mill around and appear confused

Finally I dared to down the steps
and I met accidentally himself

gathered together in a bulky catholic truth, I found him sad
painting keys with a familiar hair
I can see that even now, lightly

It was what I expected not expected; he too knew not knew what was coming

When I walked into his head, I was not sure what I wanted
nor did i even know what was possible
I suppose you could say that
i was almost unsafe if this was normal

the whole affair gives or takes only certain seconds,
he pulled me rocking from the cords fresh across
the most beautiful things
beautiful till it rambled on its sink.rise and scales

…thought I was here, as if or am i here, if I were here really or not…
so suddenly i stood behind him inside his Earth

a consummate elegance of keys in straight grey painted
well over the tops of each other
until there was nothing but grey slats of canvas, countless numbers of them
all across the space
i put the purple black of my hand into one of his paintings
the one key moved, made metal in my hands
 
I pulled it away from the canvas like taffy
and it striped the color back to its
purple black and perfect white

the key dropped on the ground with a clunk, because I could not hold its terrestrial weight in my liquefied hands

he heard me then, turned around at such a strange clunk and new artifact or prop to ponder
to be polished with that tip pinstriped bit of cloth
wrapped around his torso to the wrists
and so suddenly the
earth stood behind us without so much invisible weight

and where did he put our key?
-he swallowed it

so at first i loved him, just because of his mouth…

~bad.habits, from a dream i had once

The angle of the natural occurrences of orange light shifted as the plane turned 360 degrees, each degree imperceptibly shifting into the next degree without seam.

And then we lurched forward as if our lives depended on it, recycling headlines in our subconscious before sleep vomited them into astute dreams of collective worldview.

So much of life was hologram, never so stilted as the picture frame behind the couch in the room that is no longer the room it once was in the sadness chamber realized.

Leaving ground for maintained speed and muted elegance or moment graced by altitudes (seas of potatoes) an everyday occurrence shared by dust, illuminated by indifference, or even as a consequence of holding back

the time wastes away in a stale soda can.

Beyond the hindrance that came from nowhere impossibly and imperceptibly, miles above dawn, tomato juice is mixed with vodka and modesty.

~WCTank

i stared at it for a long time.  it was of his lover, and around her neck

a door key lay.

when i touched the key on the canvas, it melted into metal on my fingertip and i

pulled it out of the painting like taffy

from the canvas… into existence. 

the girl in the canvas disappeared, leaving nothing behind but middle grey and

the wooden frame flopped to the ground by my feet.

there was something oddly familiar about this, and i had a sickening sweat

of déjà vu drip down my spine in three long waves like

electric honey…

~bad.habits, from a dream i had once