The cephalopod pots

I miss your spirit and I search for it in every bottle. 
I bioluminescence my visions onto its empty walls. 
echoing beacons out to sea,
Waiting for you to respond.

Surprise me

I wish this: 
because I know how real it feels when I lose everything and all the emptiness is sucked away into this breath that we breathe together right now at the end of this.

Icy cold tiny marrow, smoking, waiting for the poor man's Carriage to arrive.
the padding of the butt between the chattering teeth uncontrollable just like I predestined fate to be.
I wish you were here with us. Instead I pawned your loneliness and why I asked why.
I wander through the shiny Graves,
through the morning light, and back again
and again
and again
and again
and again.
Watching my fingerprints disappear before my eyes.

Pots

Talking yourself into irrelevance is not a profound critique on being. it's a cheap trick of the rational mind.
Before falling asleep and entering dreaming, the question of whether this is real is asked.
Moving from box to box, looking through windows while eating in a box, and then  bathing in a box before sleeping in your box. 

The wood ash drippings and the orange flushing of the flames marks on the clay is real. 
Where is this market where the real pots are for sale?
The toad that comes out of its hole at night to hunt the stunned bugs crashing into the light. 
The raven watching from the bridge the water streaming below and commuters streaming above. 

Bosch time

The shadow is always looking to consume that good shit , fullest of spirit. 

Fingerprint folk

Impressions we leave
Traveling mazes alone
Your own Metronome stepping in time
I'm drumming along line by line
Identifying ourselves by the routes we take.

Weightless between

ravens watching
Sunsetting Chess buildings 
Casting long shadows 
Commentating Shakespeare's opossum
Catching only glimpses
Waiting for the move

Waiting for the train

Scratching off the present comes through without punctuation too breath