Quilted stitches & scrap metal

A few things locked away for times safe keeping--ruins to orchids.
Memories reaping benefits through bountiful orchards. Round and red,
over-ripened fruit falling off tree branches, spoiling all the good.
Stop spoiling all the good.

Lone Boneshaker sitting dormant this time around, though maybe it should.
I will miss you. Silence.
Running and reading far too much these days. Reciting full plays in my head
every third of a second--slap, slap, slapping purple, silver Brooks' rhythm on pavement.
Tybalt is not really dead; he was in The Pest.


Keep it quiet, hidden away safe in preservation. Square boxes won't keep
their shape through the rainy season, though attics keep memories warm and dry a little longer;
permanent markers clogging up my nostrils; army soldiers stealing my collectibles.
Stop the distraction.
Hurry up and get it done so you can travel.
You've always been a hassle, hassling everybody to move like you.
Too quick. Compulsive... graceful.

Charlotte said, it would be alright. It'll be alright. I know. And grass is green, sky is blue--but only for the daylight--give me music or give me light.
Get me love or get me...


Faithlessness is for the faded out; that's not really me. And only drastic changes can be saved for Tuesday evening, Mayday haircuts.
Some things never change--like, everything else.
Deep inside stays; describe me only in adjectives, though don't be cynical--admire its tragedy, these simple little things.
Washboards ripping my wire seams out. Grateful for clean water in this moment, though someday, I pray to be less fortunate.
Saving the world; we could save the world.
We can. I still believe in magic.
Amazing what can be made to happen.
I believe.

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