Ink.

(( I kind of want to make this into a song)).

Sitting on the porch at 3AM, only light is from the moon and the out of season Christmas light strands that I hung carelessly. Listening to the coyotes and the silence in between and rhyming because I hate it, the esoteric need to know who I’m writing to when it flows. And when the color of goodbye echoes underneath the fool-moon eclipsing, nowhere near the rainbow shines. And when the daylight’s screaming for release, the stairwell’s dripping crimson-fleece, sighing on the rooftop’s tide. Looking out the window shining fog light sympathetic chiming glass on glass synthetic from the overpass dissectant. When the bluest skies bring tears and every corner seems to disappear in unfamiliar ceilings. When escapade relents the hours, solitary confined powers, sliding through the sewer-grate. With nothing left to lose. And nothing left to choose. Angel wings become the side-effect of insomniac dreaming of the chemicalic reaming in and out of each cell competing for the hand at wave and lashing down. The sky becomes newborn and the urban street, the lashing, cowering to fade, the brighter sum of passing days. And port-street tunnels vacuum the stars, the shine, the sea and all the reflecting essence of the metamorphic destiny, sliding through the astral leaves, as java scaled the cracking streets of downtown and it’s alcohol drowning symphony. And I skewer-signed the painting in a canvas cello cloud. Ink becomes the mystery. And the rest just screams out loud.