Big Speak (day 2663)

Apathy ranked high
In a list of long morals
That ruled the Big Speak’s ritualistic world
Visions confused as actions
Daylight confused as laughter
Dogs barking at parked cars
That swam away in a sea of surfboards.
The mothers cried
But held their tongue
For their culture had been shifted
Into bravery, brutish endurance
Ending in self-righteousness
So tightened by affirmations
Conflicting with daylight savings
While observing from a park bench.
But don’t tell lonely
For the Big Speak’s confused
That rhetoric means engagement
And slaughter means community.

Freckles and Moles (day 2378)

What would it feel like to have your neck in my lips
Your skin so close to my heartbeat.
Would your eyes look up at mine
From the top of your conscious gaze?
Would it be your fingertips or mine
Tracing entangled veins, tender areas
Upon a dreamscape of freckles and moles
A back opening up like hidden pages of a precious diary.
Would we’d twist and roll
Like two logs in a well kept fire
Burning as slow as we could
So each new ember could linger upon our tongues?
Would sensations erupt here?
Down our traced spines
While our roots began to slowly grow tighter
In a full surrender to our nature.

Relapse Saint (day 2368)

My lingering resists death,
It coddles a beat
That speaks only in a muffled tongue
Wishing for a silence
Evening powerlines consume.
Can you collapse here?
My traces will not forgive thee,
They will not remember thee,
And too long ago now
They set thee onto a passenger train
Curling up into a ball
And rambling onward
With wishes
Of a recovering saint
Collapsing into relapse.

Toes (day 2201)

I have experienced this before
Toes pointed forward
Tongue tied
Missing little bits I never ever held
Counting down the days
To keep my mind occupied
No deadline approaching
No timeline to meet
Just anxious and mythodic footsteps
Approaching a number
That never mattered
But to my easy mind
Heartbeats and approaching dreams
Close my eyes and realize
An afghan is my sweater, again.

Dustpans (day 1834)

I’m going to experiment with
My tongue tied around
Cruel witches dustpans
In the fall of a deep winter.
My hands will mix
An elixir potent enough
To knock sense
Into unsensible madmen
Rambling back and forth
In front of trailheads,
Circling madness
As the drugs take hold
And my tongue unfurls.

Beautiful People (day 1824)

Why are people so beautiful?
Some days the ruin of my heart
Lingers upon my tongue
And touches my nose with the faintest scent
Of midsummer’s rain.
I cannot handle this pain
In the easiest of ways,
Waiting for my touch to return
And senses to die down.
For I am only a man,
Saddened by a never ending toil of life
To which I patch holes
With beautiful people in my heart.

Beautiful People by Ned Tobin

Three (day 1816)

Human is at last on my mind
Nine fifteen nine fifty three
Easy my modal
On stride in a day’s lemonade

If it goes to three
Then land on my hill
Let ours be and then be
Motion set inside of me

Advantage atmosphere
Advantage tip of my tongue
Burning without gasoline
Summer night is my number three

Three by Ned Tobin