the
stolen moments
when chaos hits

be it good
be it bad

before
we pour
the alcohol

before the chance
to split

when we are all
just in it

together

in the transient pause

the freedom

in the moment
right
before

changing direction

without wanting

to make a new plan

but
when
being forced.

I spent
all the time
by myself
the tree branches
articulated
naked
the legs of
my pants
covered in mud
there was no rock and sway
just the silence
water frozen solid
moving
hand over foot

traveling erosion

I circled through the space
a cratered moon
with a bic lighter
without a song
a broken smile
only the miles
before me
and behind
me.

Friday in paradise
the marching band
is playing
up and down the
streets

you can hear
the misfits banging
pots and pans
from their camp
to match them

their timpani and snare

the sun is
strong-arming
the night

and with it
any dreams
that try to linger

I can smell the coffee in the windows
feel
the fat of sleep
around my eyes

- to the trenches

to the shower stalls
and the buttered bread
the work boots
the shirt/suits

and the
bus
stops

there is someone
lying
in
the
street.