Before the madhouse
It was noise, drive, write, and do some shit.
Slam, slam and slip and dive,
And congregate to stripped-down rhythm,
Strident, headstrong, full of it
Which is that thing of ignorant grace.

Middles are always long.
Some great purge of place, or solo,
Find and follow, rest, repeat,
Appreciated value for the seemingly concrete,
Can't jump too hard, turns out the ground was hollow,
From the get-go. I stopped; no rhythm.

Convalescing in the silence.
We are a lonely people in this house.
Big spells so trigger some big head
Full to the brim thinking.
Arrested in motion. Maybe it's the snow.
And to make up my mind
Three bits at a time, look at what has passed...
Theorize, embrace, revise, relate.

Deep inside there's still some fraction of a voice I used to hear spinning all that talk about a bright-light future. But all this shotgun speak really gets to me. We're all each other as we pass. For the love of anything, you have to know yourself by now. Dilated eyes of something seen and wanted much, and many, many feelings scattered like specks of red comet dust
Encapsulate the view perfectly strange.