22 December 2018 I imagined my mind knowing better felt my viscera quiver. the birds get startled into flight though always round-trip. it’s good to be home alone not that you would if I had anything to do about it but we make do. life sucks its thumb. you’re right where you’re meant to be. who’s to say blankets aren’t party dresses or that eyes can only wet in one way. gloveless in this eventide chill. luckily we aren’t parting thickets for interstices for clarity. I empathise with the trees that bend out of light’s way at least till rough limbs creep up gently against glass they refuse to crack. dirty bedroom window remains so. it treasures the head that rested on it oil and all pondering the ease with which we dance around naked intention. show me it’s possible to live and for quite a while without flowering a new wound. how lovely we are in our natural state. taste of raw tongue on my tongue waves fragile at our feet. we stay dipped long enough for our digits to grow old shrivel without fear. something once felt too cruel to endure. I would not have chosen to float if given the option. but now i’ll swim.
Southwest Gothic weather vanes spinning wildly even though there's no wind sunsets bathing everything in saturated light before all the color disappears old homesteads leaning to one side everything covered in cobwebs walking in the desert alone but you're not alone someone on the crest is crawling with you waking up to the sound of a complete downpour but looking outside and it hasn't rained even a drop your walls have eyes and they've seen
Midwest Gothic abandon farms silos that are slowly turning back into the earth street lights that flicker as you pass them empty streets in the middle of the night, but you still hear footsteps behind you someone looking at you from a curtained window, then you blink and they’re gone storm sirens at 2 AM an old radio carackling on, even though no one touched it the endless fields know your fears
East Coast Gothic foggy piers something large and unknown washing up onto the shore the end of the beach disappearing into the storm shade of the forest, leaving patterned shadows and tricking your eyes overgrown tombstones old houses painted black, shuttered windows an outbuilding in the middle of the woods, the forest has moved inside you know someone lives there figures between the trees, whispering