Your Histories (day 2286)

I can only hold my breath
As waves of anxiety pass through me
Butterflies emanate so powerfully
From my being
Sunshine becomes hard to see
I cannot count to ten or listen
I cannot comprehend noises
Conversation becomes lost
In an inaudible sea of thought
That has found me here
Floating around your island
Out beyond the breakers in the sea;
A picture on the wall
That leaves me awe-struck
Star struck, but not star-struck,
Star struck that makes me remember
Your kindness that laughed at me
Your eyes that watched with me
Your silence that became excited with me
And your being that is
A remarkable being
A being that should rest upon silk robes
Effortlessly moving through a sea of pillows
That supports your every wish
With decadence and consideration
And space that gives you time
To remember the histories
That you have always been,
And love that has never been forgotten
In a book written long ago
Bound with two ribbons:
One of forest green,
The other of gray.

Journals (day 1902)

I want to prescribe my love to a book,
Hold it like dead leaves
Ready for to crumble.
I want my dreams to spill
Into a molten desert
My toes slowly roast in,
Pealing at the seams
As my typed heart scowers
Horizon lines flickering between
Icy reverence and painful reality
And papercuts
That read like smudged fingers
Of a well loved journal.

Journal by Ned Tobin

Dry (day 1891)

Rain, an unending apathy
Soaking away my desire
Feeding my inward voice
To a soothing fire
Of warm socks and books
To take all thoughts
Bundled away by leather strap
Into a tent listlessly blowing,
Heaving and relenting
For a softer night dry.

Of A Time (day 1259)

Remind me of a time
I have always dreamt to be.
Of snowflakes
And hot chocolate, and
Giant balloons in the sky.
And wisdom I’ve learnt of
In dusty wooden books –
Backwards to frontwards
With marvelous hooks.
Lost in the park,
In the middle of a rainstorm,
In the middle of your heart,
With crackers and cheese,
And a bottle that’s real dark.
Remind me of a time

A Chance to Be Faculty and Chief (day 1119)

A valley, like my mind, may look empty on the inside – void of all that makes up matter. Void of all the mass that builds houses and factories and city roads and flower gardens and traffic jams.

For cannot this still matter? I am lost in a wasted land, and the fight challenges my patience along grated edges of wisdom.

Do you hear the sharp bells ringing? Is this the difference that is ringing, or has freedom finally called my name?

The sheath shall sadly fall apart, ragged from too much use like a cocktail napkin at a lipstick party. History shall not scream loudly here. This is not the bitter pages of a non-fiction picture book.

Here we have wrinkled tin garbage cans rolling lifelessly along unkempt lawns of former princes’, former glory holes that believed in a dream. A lifeless dream built on waste management systems and recycling plans.

So I cannot spoil my food anymore. My valley – running deep – is the chance to be faculty and chief. My valley is the early morning breath and the dying chances. My valley is the shortened season and the wilderness.

My valley is me, and I’ve begun to see.

Dainty Little Pixies (day 1010)

Could law we broke figuratively
Demand our justice?
Like clippings sealed in thick books
Observing penance,
Freely battling justifications
And counting down days until extinction.

A cold winter’s breath blows
While a dainty little pixie dances
Towards destruction’s edge.
Flirting with every step,
Every essence of being,
Until fluttering about in a daze;
Imploding into decay

Soakin’ In With Old Smells (day 686)

I’ve been livin’ on a tear drop
Soakin’ in with old smells
Cigarettes and memories

I’ve been rollin’ on these four wheel
Long nights and sad songs
Music keeps my road signs

I’ve been holdin’ on to old boots
Worn through my thick soul
Dollar bills when midnight croaks

I’ve been thinkin’ of a book gone
Left me dreamin’ with wide eyes
Open plains and deep creeks

I’ve been livin’ on a tear drop
Soakin’ in with old smells
Cigarettes and memories