the man who has to live with hindsight
had a steady-bad-habit diet that wore him to toothpicks
bore him like newsprint from vagrant palms
and if that's the inevitable for a man who knows,
I feel sorry for you.

but check this in
life is never about knowing
it's about learning
the difference between being and becoming
that thing you have where you can't understand how much what you are experiencing is affecting
stuck so curiously and firmly within the present
begging yourself to find a way to get away with anything else
how many times a day you lose yourself entirely in parked eyes at cross streets
lately it's been empathizing with trees
notice the difference between a swimmer and his water was never such a distance?

dark hair sits down next to me on the train
the entire time their arm brushes mine
and knowing I don't even need to see their face to feel something other than just alive
attempting desperately to connect with any single thing to validate my own reality

this morning I nearly drown in tunnel-vision buildings
I suppose I can walk back with my eyes closed,
but bury my head in a hole from my heart to china, on my own?
I don't know.

for a second you are an animated
middle aged
rich caucasian
whose worries rest between
subtle frequencies on his car stereo
blaring traffic, weather and sports scores on it's eights-
(it would seem you're almost two entire minutes behind)
(the slowest watch you've had since junior high)
-and the perfect bottle of wine for overpriced chinese leftovers
as you find your usual right
your gut whispers to your brain
and instead you keep driving

considering all of the mistakes I've made
I'm lucky to be alive
but I sure don't ever think it
considering the way I've treated those in my life
who mean more to me than everything
it's hard to believe I have anything

blocks out of your way you find a dark space
pointed asymmetry, bricks, and escapes

in that alley I took an extra big whiff of the evening
each nostril reminding me it was nostalgia that lead me here
still not sure what it was that would ask me to leave
rotting charts
and graphs we made
to prove to one another our ideas match what we thought might pass as actions
left for transients and garbage men

but what if it's not just our feet that are wet anymore?
maybe we aren't almost there
maybe we should be scared

now tell your children.


go home and tell your children.

Today I made a list of importants
it had food and water and habits and
the next time I walk away from myself
I'll make sure I find a mirror
climb in behind me
today I made a list of importants
it had dreams
and everything
and nothing
the second thing my father ever told my mother
was to never teach him a lesson
today I made a list of importants
it was nothing like this

today I found a list of importants
crumpled and torn in an aisle between produce
it had food and water, bad habits
and somehow I'd knew I'd tried this
I knew what it was like
four or five seconds in
spun like catacomb
wrapped like an aunt's christmas tree remnants
aim for the bottom

yesterday afternoon
somebody in a serious tone
turned seriously to ask me if
I'd be born
be, not been, as if I hadn't already
maybe wanted to, but needed help.

pretty soon you'll be overstepping your need-for-validation lines
letting everyone know how lonely and miserable you are in a manner so much less charming
you'll need to start baiting hooks to keep friends.

I'd recommend you start in the deep end, that way by the time things start to seem shallow
you've either given up already or have drown entirely.

the tiniest pair of shoes we could find you weren't really shoes at all
we grabbed them that week the weather stopped
six or seven days without so much as a breeze
it took a small hole, so that we could leave the rest of ourselves before we returned
so here they are
laces like silly wet spaghetti strings

two worn heels to match your dreams and an upside down tongue for your ideals

and though it may seem the result of our work remain halfway concealed

wait for their dare

and close your eyes for what feels like the warmest amount of time
until everything you can taste is pink
and everything you can feel is white
and your only smell peptides

...

...

wait.. there it is..

breaking.. breaking news:

your parents are children

whose parents were children

defined by their habits and what they internalized
so now you can either
suck it the fuck up
or continue on
an orphan
homesick for it's foreskin

I'm having trouble
I can't compartmentalize
am I the reason wolf parade recorded kissing the beehive?
the reason pitchfork's best new tracks make my own blood boil?
and why you enjoy novelty songs about combination restaurants?
you must be mocking me.
that has to be it; how else could you?

a man walks past me lifting his walker slightly above the sidewalk
his name tag calls him "john rash"
johnny's having trouble
you can see him internalize
shit, even I'd have a walker otherwise
it's why when I push my child in her stroller I talk on my cellphone
give my baby the impression I'm talking to her
confuse her just enough
work my cellphone arm a strong muscle
to impress the rest of you
caress your attitude toward being alive
canonize my nine to five opportunities
fit myself into a paradigm of calvin klein and jewelry
perfume from a room without a view
and a credit card that matches your lazy eyes
left in pews
struggle without their toes