burning down the houses we thought holy...

photo by EJR ©

dreaming in grainy polaroids and samaras in a shoebox

this is why we take pictures

indeed we bleed ourselves often attached to the deciduous cycles/ we plotted secret maps on Winters’ nights between bone armed sentinel reaches and a black gauzed night seeping into a dome yellow sodium sorrow of anticrime street-lighting/  a city might sleep, with one eye open, high on Ambien, walking the sundry to fancy anonymous sexual escapades/ certain purities and slag(s), imprinting wills and won’t(s) upon the empty pages and subtle pageantries of instinct, information, hunches, survivals, thrives and what we load inside our bones to share with each other without ever having to say a word

this is why we personalize our experiences

hooking ourselves to wagons and trains feeds the quiet embers of our collective soul’s belly mechanical(s)/ working the long hands midnight to dawn while, the stuck to a clock crowd, remains the same chorus of a song/ never acknowledging, we are always seeking of the new warm womb/ while we are often at our highest, crawling underneath surrender/ why we swing for low bound chariots, bough canopy poems and changeling views/ between our seed lust hunger and the trees

EJR ©