i laugh, they file in all defiant and hazy,
only the internet for imagination,
teen angst plagiarizing past generations,
ego being the reason and life, the movie.

my bed's full of wondering how much the week
is sleepless for the weekend.
sisyphus is recalling stealing time from hell with will and reasoning,
my foot's when driving home,
inhaling blends of nicotine and gasoline,
easing my boulder through rush hour traffic,
unsure if it's burden or friend.

keep dreaming this repeating a redeeming free,
been practicing a mirror sunken-eyed with truth,
in between wrinkled optimism and raw youth,
i play arcade bob dylan in my life, the movie.

a poem is everything at 11:59 on friday night,
after having left the impossibles to glow at the indifference,
when a narrative spun some long hair memory yarn
critique of existence
greening in january just to match neon signs beyond wrong or right.

i scratch memory for holy simplicity
soothe addicted hypocrite history regret,
a perpetuity of highs and lows we get
for the realness of recasting life, the movie.

there's an expanse of white mountains dangling
from the ceiling by prisms of light.
stars are penetrating the blinds for minds made up
of shadows and doorways,
inside out logic for words, eternity's to honor immortal malaise.
no, you weren't even you, dear,
but an erstwhile composite romantic height.

a philosophy for every futility
to null punch lines crafted by tragic beauty jest.
geneva liked maria's voice, they're both a mess
for paradox excursions in life, the movie.

i wish singing in my room would spread energy electric becomings
and that omaha girl could hurl her hurt into the pacific ocean.
she's pale for california, so wears that sundress eddy of emotion
and a blank face colored with piercing eyes.
her everythings are her nothings.

i love you's a belief that transcends clarity.
i want to rise above the conditional
happy we tried to tip-toe to to be loyal.
souls belong somewhere someday if life, the movie.