zero dollar day

eyes open and close through paper days. a body on a pillow. some nights pass quicker through static and silence in the sheets. others fill with colour.

dreams build doors that never actualise beyond the bardo. familiar faces take the stage to gloat ambitions for the demons to scratching claws and howls. a pantomime of what if, all of little consequence. at the time it all feels real from the cheap seats to the wings.

sometimes there's excitement like I haven't known in years. I chew on fantasies I'd never have the nerve to chase. watch them forge a path into the inbetween. hope is less dangerous behind closed eyes. I see you and you want to see me too. sometimes there's only joy and warmth without an urge to read the news. your closeness is enough to keep me where I am. content for a moment; cycling circles in my head.

the theatre empties for tomorrow. I spoil a zero dollar day on account of lack of sleep. 

418 in white on black

a clearing in the clouds fills the green between the paths. I sit on the wall and watch the faces pass, leaves in a stream from the library out into their own forevers. the branches dance above: gentle breeze, warmer in a sense of spring to come. a magpie sings across the pavement, a tag around his ankle. 418 in white on black. I don't know what it means or why his other friends fly free unnumbered.

somewhere on the the cusp of consciousness. I stream the days through empty screens and doomsday groceries. on my phone I read your name and hope to see you when I sleep. sometimes you say mine in response. sometimes I wish I could forget. wake to tasks and masks to keep the wheel spinning. a dollar and a dream taxed to fuel the war machine. the headlines hang in shame - another word for hell on earth in place of action. another word enough to aid our guilt and apathy for now.

my chain slips in motion off the cobblestone. I brake to fix my bike somewhere between the cemetery and bed. the mishap paints my fingers and I seek salvation from the telegraph pole. blossoms weep over the curb to make me think of home. a little too cold and too early this year. I'd send a picture if only I could ask myself to stop and take the time.

the fish swim through

sacrifice tomorrow’s face to chance. nothing worth your time. the ink might as well spill from the pen into the fire. I buy nothing with another day. time down the drain, the wine we didn’t finish. the fish swim through and it’s all air to them.

geyser

contemplating pulp or the news. another death in high definition, turtles bleeding from their eyes. mine are tired from lack of dreams and we can only watch so much. the cat keeps me captive, in bed, from reaching my potential, etc. something else to blame today. I wring myself dry of thought until I'm drifting to the moon on the ghosts of passing cars. wait in supermarket traffic and the chemist for a friend. always safer between places I should be. the chain comes off but I'm a geyser and get back on the road again.

failure and the dark

grow up and listen to the notes you paid to take. book a time to see the doctor. maybe there's more that could explain why I feel the way I do? her eyes are kinder than yours and this is nothing new: she's seen this film before and has her ways to change the end. 

change like the ice on the window overnight. sometimes there are easy fixes. sometimes things are harder. medical monitoring to catch the changes if and when they come. what will make me take the steps to stand and board the train again? am I driven by reward or fear of failure and the dark?

every day a phone call down the emergency escape. never quite hearing you over the steps of my descent. never more than late or out of touch. I still need to book my flights.

mirrors etc.

we make mirrors when the reflection in the pond isn’t clear enough. there was a time before we drew the face. now the feed is full. I know how I look and it matters. were we ever really meant to see so much of ourselves? at least we’re drowning less (for now).

a burning tree

somewhere between sleep and sense: a sun sets on the coals of a birthday I can’t face. from the kitchen sink I watch old ghosts laugh and dance around a burning tree in the garden. I could leave the house and join them but it’s getting dark and I need an early night for school tomorrow. someone runs through the flames for fun. I wave behind the window.

in the morning on the bus I listen to boys I don’t know share excitement for retirement on the way to work. ‘the cushion is going to feel so good when I get there…’ someone’s baby screams like I might have years ago. the boys in suits keep talking til the tunnel spits us out.