Which way is up? Indeed, we have exceeded beyond ourselves now, pulled without arrows of misanthropic successes or thinking where we could end up. Up is what I make of it.

Here, we sit in blocks of power and
Four by four dignity
Connotations of the poor
And the requiems of ink and paper

Lines and lines of the fill
Can’t prove me right or
Stick me wrong but

Principle
Still accounts for some principle

Of the desecration of ideas
That until now felt so tangible
The longing feel to bring in
The winter’s fuel,
Of cold, of grass still hidden from every tangibility

Where I ate my words and soaked clean in the numbing life of the snow
Felt my tongue disappear
And every sense resound around
Lines
They’re just lines

Would it sound good to you if I left this alone for a while?
Walked away to simpler strides and try to
Pick up where I left off before?

This song reminded us of the mixes we made
In that winter not so long ago;
The numbing we felt
Under fleece and beyond
Being and hour and a half away
From walk on teams of
Folks who would say it was all wrong

Would we feel those numbing snows this time around?
Would it seem ok to return to those numbing snows,
Where it felt good not to know,
And felt good to control?
I think if we got all beyond transitions from one thing to
Another
Like narratives and lines
That were just lines,
I’d leave myself with a feeling of restoration,
Of white and chilling

And without thought or reason
I count in times thought up
And captions created
From hyper, phallic, words
Designed to imply and fuse us together.

So many mixed mentions surround
This practical skill
Of picking up and moving on when it felt so clean
To lay there numb out in the cold
And freeze
Before flowers
And opened out knees
There were flowers and
Cold
And shifts
So cold, we still
Remember
So warm now,
It was easy to forget
Being frozen
Into every wayward thought
And-
And every logical, tactical, response
Thinking about every situation
Before becoming a part of every situation
I’ve broken the scheme of those who love to be free
Those who don’t need to figure things out
And bring their wild, paramount,
Minds into every situation
Say it with me:
I am too detrimental on every world and my own.

We are all that type.
Who sit and figure ourselves out.
So we can figure out each other.

Blame this on the thought,
On the forum by which we are heard.
The world
The ground
The sky
The flavor
Is up
In Nevada, the sea is up
On the subway, your feet are up,
In my mind,
I still turned up
And pulled in the rope between me eyes
And the subway floor
Feet
Eternally forced
And eternally
Up
Without trend of disclaimer
And pattern
I shook my head and
By myself tore a little more apart
I put my arms on the trademarks of shelves and
Shelves of novels
Novel bodies
Novel feelings
Of every thing there was to read and learn

Trademark all that, because I’m sure
I didn’t coin that phrase,
Yeah, I think I misread those days
There were more rules and security
My arms flipped foreign pages
To scan text
And adjudicate text formats
Races of something I could feel
And pens closing their points
And allegations

The problem that got away
And my arms crossed in their absence
Missing the most important stories,
Ignoring the stories that came before me,
Waiting for my turn to speak
So here, we won’t adapt from the models set for us
By our predecessors
Where computers forgot how to calculate before the 2000 switch
And circuit boards charge our little hearts and minds while we sleep

They connected us
With aspirations and clean, electric, guilt
They tried to stimulate the worldview
And stimulate our little hearts and minds
Those currents kept us moving
And held us accountable
To charge.

In the sense that,
“No, your mother doesn’t love you.”
“No, we don’t care about your goals for your future.”
And
“Yes, you are in the crosshairs of a jealous fraternity, whose product spoke of age and reason, whose disposition reinvented all of us.
And still, He changes to the yearnings of this World.
The little proclamations of His United States of America.
The frequencies of a fatter, future wreck of Sunday hats, pontoon boats and salty sweat.”
And the Word was sweat, and the Word was with sweat.
Without Him, without debt
To something besides the ocean breeze we claimed as our own.
Pay off that trade wind, let the banks freeze over with snow
Its only scratched the surface of a tranquil observation
That I had of heat and snow and Mercury all existing as one.
And the Word was snow
And the Word was with snow
Configured like subsequent children of the vent

The children of the one true Sweat.

Not the first I’ve felt, but the first I’ve let
Define me,
Make my sentences shorter
Take my own life
Away from the temperatures
Who will call me their predecessor
Will I illustrate warning in the seconds before my resurrection?
Through seconds unpleasant to you,
I am free again.
In the sweat of the settling ice
And stationed wind
Compromising, conflicting
Yeah, we pinned them together
And quietly turned away

And the Word was us, and the Word was with us.