the almost life-long atheist.

morals and standards fly as dust through the air

rotting and peeling and working up through the soil.

the exquisite corpse laughs at the irony of storytelling,

a beginning and an end, the cross on the wall

above him and his knees on the ground

next to the bed, hands tightly clasped and his

pleas hit the ground. the dust settles and is wiped away

for the sake of living in cleanliness.

for the sake of living a lie.

for his sake, and for her sake because

she read that work of literature every goddamned day.

for the sake of eternity.

the exquisite corpse laughs at the irony of purity.

he hobbles to the closet and pulls his nicest sweater

off its hanger and drapes it over his shoulders

before crawling back under the covers.

he wanted to be the center of envy

in case hell had frozen over.

from the other side.

one hundred degrees as I stepped out of the car

the kind of heat that is truly baffling

overcast, the sun wrapped up in that blanket

but still so fucking hot

I closed the door behind me

and stood still

more still than the air

watching my breaths fall

pummeling to the earth

under the weight of all those

dense motionless particles

it was silent, was so

silent…

nothing moved

not the smallest leaf or

the smallest fly on the smallest

piece of shit

nothing

and I wondered ever so briefly

if I had died or if everyone else

had died

and this was all that was left

just the fucking heat

and the silence

and I finally decided

if that was the case

then I was the luckiest asshole

on the planet

he had read all the greats and he felt admiration

towards the hearts torn from chests and

the language burned and softened.

and since a god might be found

in sound waves and eye color,

he cared more for the burdens

of thunder and rain.

he sat alone under rolling thunderheads,

legs hanging over the edge of the boat

rocking slowly as the small radio at his side

played fuzzy notes that it could barely pick up.

the frozen keys of an ancient piano

struck in a combination that

had always existed

and was finally put together

inside the mind of a brilliant man,

with the probable aid

of pain and uneasiness.

the radio tower, broadcasting off the coast

shook hands and parted

with the melodic masterpiece,

and so the boat drifted on.

the ripples through water,

were ripples through time.

the evening held close

what dull light it carried

and the seconds were drops

in a deepening ocean.

in a self consuming effort

to preserve the night, the wind

and all extensions of his being

he drifted on, breathed the air

and with pencil in hand

translated to words

just how the sky

met the sea.