Layered Elements

There's something unnerving in the air today I can't feel its weight anymore Or can [[I]]? Nothing makes sense after [[you]] think of it for too long

The candle's [[flame]] sits too high Wax drips down like [[water]]. I to i Heat dissipates through the air and leaves [[you]] cool Snuffed out--a [[crowd]] of [[smoke]]

You tread the [[water]] Turbulent and riptied like a riot Sticks move like candles [[I]] don't know what to do with the [[flame]]s And lose you in the panic of the [[crowd]] and [[smoke]]

[[call]] me Dance like [[smoke]] [[crowd]]ed above my head Cartooned face. scrunchied up nose There is no [[water]] to quench my thirst.

I am an afterbrith of [[flame]] The remnants of the rigor of creativity [[water]] drowned There is no [[crowd]] for my funeral no siren [[call]] of my song I am what I was

There is nothing quite like the firstime i saw your eyes blue with the hint of [[smoke]] An ocean on the morning or steamed water over kitchen [[flame]]s Make something beatufil out of the [[crowd]]ed mess of my memory of you [[call]] me if you get lost on the way

Maddened or is that cliche now? Book titles sseem like what they would [[call]] out Voices like fanned [[smoke]] above [[flame]]s there is no way to calm the [[water]]fall of voices

Help me i left this [[message]] in a [[bottle]] for you Did you find it? Am I seen? Is this [[enough]] for you?

The page is empty as it sits before you Everything that came before soaked in water and flame Smoke and timers at the door, barking like dogs Debt collector scary as the sun sits low This isn't for you. It's just an assigment blown Into the air--out of proportion. I forget the way the crowd Feels. The tea kettle stings leftover on the edge of my lips Worse than a kiss half-bitten Bloodbuzzed and still the page sits empty Last call for instruction manuals

Water and flame make smoke Petey, or mybe you prefer agave Either way the burn will sift across you Nose and lips casualties among the crowd Of cups. Call me King. I made this Mess and it sticks to my hands like salt Maybe it'll even turn the air sour If that's its name There is no good end to this Call me before the dead end of this cul de sac

Hemingway points his gun at my liver Raymond Carver his pen to my temple Bukowski is slumped in the corner I should call someone Maybe I should call you Yes, regress from the smoke if you can Before fire and flame were more common than Coming up for air. Trade in the riptide that Tried to carry you under water. Stand in line For the vanity of the city.Safe in the unidentity of A crowd that does not care Lose the high in the mirror and rememeber where they ended up Not in your head, but in the ground