Synchromesh

At the river again
watching the stars waving, not drowning
and playing stones across
the glow stick wave tops
marking the water like
blue white road flares
in a two million car, black asphalt, pile up.

No survivors.  Sitting still
enough to feel the ground sliding by the water
sitting still, the sky turns
Northwest, and contrails split
moonlight into threads
as they speed on their bearings
behind the black reservoir hill,

I come apart,
held too tightly, and the splinter
glass threads flow away
in their wake.

Through the Carousel

Entry speeds match,
but who brakes first
and who brakes last.

Tail out over rumble strips and the run off
to plastic water drums and flame glorious realignment.

My eyes are on you and your
glowing ceramics and white rims
spinning in place

and my skin
pulling away from it's face
along the high line

I took 43 out of 45 laps.
The crash
will be
your black flag

if you come out of it still running.

I am all metal
toward the exit
with enough track
to hold one set of tires.

Relations

I'd rather have my belly scratched
and lose a little on the side.
I'd rather have my paw to tap,
my ear, so scratched, my guide.
I'd rather be a sucker and purr
than stare death from my eyes.
I don't mind if you take sometimes,
because you've read the sign.
In white on read it clearly states,
"beware of dog, he bites."
Have some, test it, before I do,
with me that's all alright.
Have me have a go, I don't mind.
Afterall, it is just a friendly try.
Scruples and palettes differ,
the argument never lies,
weight by measure or measure by
weight the game comes to the eyes.
Do what you will and decide what you want
but, beware of the dog,
he bites.

You Are No Good

Be whatever the fuck you want to be.
  Be closed minded, about
  the fact that you haven't opened your head
  to structure and the freedom lying there
  waiting for your touch, naked
  inside a nest of stupid chaotic
  spun days, and call it enlightenment,
  but admit you've fooled no one.
Be whatever the fuck you want to be.
    Be the Jack or the Queen or
       wear the rings, real or not, or the chain
             real or not.  Smoke or don't, but don't smoke
                    in my bathroom.  I like to shit in peace.
       Be the ass or the hare or the fox or the mystery
          animal to be revealed in tomorrow's episode.
  Count down or count up or be the one always counting out loud,
      or don't speak.  Ever.
Be whatever the fuck you want to be.
  Be a horrible friend, or an okay friend,
  or a person I still call sometimes
  when I'm stumble prone and the stars are spinning
  and I remember what it felt like when you dragged me
  to my feet and "what's wrong with you?"
  was a story too long for my head to buffer
  and I shrug and smirk at a face no longer there
  and fall over again, and the voicemail left is ambient early morning
  road noise, until the battery dies.
Be whatever the fuck you want to be.
         
           
            All we ask is that whatever your pursuit of being makes you,
            let it not make you into a self serving, conceited and entitled ,
            hoof in mouth, humorless and holier than though, dick.