A short thought between brothers about how this doesn't work.

One night, driving forty miles per hour with the street lights fluttering over head, we decided that teleportation and time travel are possible only for the capsule of the self and impossible for consciousness, mainly because it is just a little bit more than nothing.

On wondering how to look at a face.

I often wonder about
the right way to look
at a persons face, or how
to look at one's own
face. Is the face a collection
of pieces that creates a single
frame of flawless you-ness or
me-ness? Like a painting or
a coffee mug, incomplete
without paint or mug.
For without the mug, there
would only be the handle;
a thing to hold, to grasp,
to carry. Never enough
to justify the ascent to
nonexistent lips.
Or is a face the very
pieces that create a face?
Each individual hair misplaced
above slightly offset eyes
that swoop and peak to
point the way along a ridge
or road of a nose that sleeps,
each night, beside cheekbone
hills, thundering lip clouds, and
the stained castle gates.
The reason I wonder is because
someone said your eyes are
flawless so I couldn't help but
notice that your eyebrows are
uneven.

A night of sleep.

Its not right to tell people
they're digging a hole
when it will never physically
exist.
I can't sleep when I'm alone
though a wish is made every
night, by everyone who does,
that their blankets breathe
and feel the sadness they
wrap, trapping it from
escaping into the sky and
causing uneeded rain in
the clouds that protect the
universe from feeling
sad as well.
I'm tired of being so far away
from you, so I wish, along with
everyone else, that somehow,
every pair of shoes you own
will read my mind when I dream
of your legs teasing mine in
their sleep and decide for your
feet that the walk isn't far
and carry you like angels
arms to the heaven of
a time when we won't have
to be apart.
So I close my eyes after they
toss black coins of some a.m.
into the well of everyones gated
lashes and wish for a long lost
golden light to seep through the
bars, throwing the covers and
freeing the sadness to destruction
of some new chance that will
carry us out and into each other
while were still both alive enough
to die like we meant it all.

Flying.

She always was the first one to cross the finish line, so in a fucked up way it makes sense that it's her funeral we were there for. Rows of pews full of faces I'd never seen before, family from other cities and friends lost to the facade of adult life, all there to celebrate a life they'd barely even known.

I couldn't sleep unless she was next to me. Like that last drink before stumbling home, she gave darkness conclusion and my mind the gift of emptiness ...

But she had to find a way, none of this good enough for her. Ever. She had to escape to the broken hearted fringe of town where expired everything goes when paying respect to the vast darkness beyond. The ability to live 74 years in 6 minutes. To receive the end in the folded embrace of every winter night.

Now its November 2057, and the clouds how grown thick through the months of summer, we continue to ignore our own hands and the damage they produce. I still have her photograph, I still have her favorite books, journals, and the last letter she wrote to the man she always loved but never knew it, never read it.

She used to talk about what the city would be like if its people looked up from their digital interests, their false connections. It was beautiful, though I can hardly imagine it anymore. She would always say "we work together, but not directly, we love the world, but not directly. We fight for change without fighting at all. Nothing was ever changed by sitting still or being peaceful. Our lives are like water; individually we are only raindrops, falling alone and evaporating in a desert of self interest and misunderstanding... But together we can form rivers, oceans, bodies so powerful and organic that seasons of life will gather to celebrate our existence."

Why she died the way we all do, I don't know. Maybe she finally realized flying was possible somewhere else.

not all hands hold the same...
weight
wait
way

why?