TailgateProphet

@tailgateprophet.bsky.social

550 Followers 193 Following

Educator. Poet. Playwright. Liverpool. Bears. Baked Pasta (just kinda happened.) 💙

It's all a turning spindle-- a single, coarse thread. This life must be learned--  an education of work-- the patient, pulling truth. There will be tangles-- knots formed + tighten. It is only in the unweaving-- in the slow, frustrating, grace of finding a single end… do our own fingers learn the original lie of the weave.
The veil is thin this night-- breathing argent-- every leaf is edged with a second, brighter life. The common air itself has learned to shine. + we, who walked in dust, now wear the light.
The hypothesis: a measured silence. The apparatus: two chairs, one unspoken thing. We introduce a variable-- the accidental brush of skin-- You are always the experiment.  Observe the reaction: a quickening, a warmth. Conclusion: Inconclusive. Yet the lab notes are full of your name.
No, I don't want to creep by-- be silent amongst demons-- when I arrive, please, tell him it's me, finally! Yes, let Devil know I'm here + with all the terror I am, there is hell to pay.
The mouth a quiet line. Teeth unseen--, no sound to give it away. But deep in the bones, a private warmth is lit. A choice, against the gray. The face is still, but the soul has curled at the edges.
At Midnight there is no energy like a kinetic woman-- power lines running up + down spine-- eyes swirling turbines-- generator thighs-- nuclear reactor attitude-- Her smile, an electric chair. Forget the Governor-- strap me in!
The arrival will not do so for conquest. Their saucer will settle in the dust  of our empty capitals + monuments. They will walk with sensors-- their great + vibrant liquid eyes  will fill with a sorrow  known only to be "human". They will trace the ghost of a river-- listen to the wind carrying  the echos of our arguing-- the bitter frequency of invisible borders. They will find our libraries,  our concert halls,  our cathedrals, + they will weep. For the brilliant,  shining thing we were given, + the dull,  broken thing we chose to make.
A seed of fire-- a grain of existance in a field of infinity-- knotted by the unrelenting. Then, a sun, born! The world-- now too small for an atom's shadow.
A pale comma against the dark lacquer of space. No rice-- it's is a suggestion of a roll-- a breath held  in the shape of maki. Sliced tuna-- a single crimson thought-- floats beside an avocado ghost. Then, it all turns, a silent culmination  in the brine of its own becoming. The wasabi always hovers. 
The new one breathes in the corner-- a soft whir where our chest would be.  We gather, a silent ritual. The old one sits-- a statue of yesterday's metal-- a cord, a vein of light connects the past to the present. We watch the data stream-- the logic of a lullaby-- the precise angle for wiping a tear-- a million memories it learned by rote-- the instinct of a newer heart. As the switch from old  to monument + new to active-- this android turns on-- Its gaze is familiar-- It knows us.
The arid chatter of distortion cracks like dry lightning across the southeast.  I am the splinter in the fist-- the crooked porch step, the sudden, open field. They build a wall of furious noise + I punch a hole in it-- let the old, weird sky pour through. A wrong note in a world of wrongs-- a twang that refuses to relent. Out of place. Exactly where I belong.
The purple fog arrived on no particular wind. It swallowed the cut husks  that drape the midwestern land during this time of year. This royal hue drank the streetlights whole + painted the herons  standing on the river's edge  an unearthly bruise. We waited for a sign-- a meaning of this violet hush. + by the time we thought to ask the question-- the rolling paint had dispersed  into the everything of it all.  Now, most don't talk about the anomaly  we all unexpectedly experienced-- but we do remember that one day-- when all colors were welcomed. 
Once, my dome was just there-- a dull shield of bone  bouldering behind every step.  Then, slowly, evolution began-- the shell that was become emerald fire-- obsidian + amethyst-- a kaleidoscope of beetle jewels.  Now, I am a walking cathedral-- carrying an altar of metallic bloom of living stained glass-- when I move, the world winks back-- This is not armor-- it's an offering. + I, the slow heart at its center, have learned to love the brilliant skin I did not grow, but was chosen to wear.
The white carton-- a pagoda of noodles-- swelling past the container's origami-- overflowing onto the public sidewalk.  They had to roll it out on a dolly!  The side was an actual automobile! With all due respect to the recipes  + the deluxe legacy of greatness-- far too often derided to a mispronunciation of "Tso"-- I climbed up + sank into the Lo Mein seat. + so I drove-- drifting into a crispy noodle horizon-- the fortune cookie serving as a lucky accelerator-- a cloud of sesame steam charioting me forward-- to home-- to my shih tzu-- waving at me in the window. 
A click of claws on cypress knee, a rustle in the sawgrass walks the bayou. One, then two, then a undertone of rhythm in the mud-thick dark. The bass line is deep with ooze. The snare is the rattle of a pebbled shell. A solo climbs the hanging moss-- a reedy + twisting sound from tentacles  They play water’s chorus-- the slow seep of roots-- a taste of rust + rain. A syncopated scuttle beneath the bone-white moon. The night swings, low, sweet, + strange. Please, come dance with us. 
When the water goes thin + the sun hangs a white hammer the frenzy turns inward. A flicker of silver-- a mistake in the murk + the covenant is broken. The same snap that stripped  a capybara to arc-bone-- the same drive that boiled  the river's surface into a bloody brew. They turn their perfect hunger on their own privileged forms-- until the river runs clear, again, carrying the secrets of water. 
For days it only teased-- a gray, distant, + longing sight. The raincoat kept to the vastness-- a quiet but empty + dry sky. Then, percussion on the pane-- a cacophony of drizzling morse code. .. / .- -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.-- These silver apologies slid down  the drainpipe with a gurgling haste-- pooling on the path before the front door-- looking for a soley lonely hook-- for the one that would always come out-- for this pouring ritual of love. Finding it's yellow embrace-- drops + drips were allowed to simply rest + finally weep upon the shoulders of its protective love-- always there, catching the falling-- even to sleep. 
The other side was never the point. It was the crossing. The gravel's shift beneath tri-toed feet-- the hot + bright white line-- the indrawn breath of air before the rush of steel + shadow. With a terrible verve to the asphalt altar-- again + again. A hunger artist in brown feathers-- the world holds only one truth-- the need to be, for one pure moment, perilously, in between!
It's a subtle strut atop the cobbles-- a feathered ghost of the Dublin smoke. Her comb is a rugged red crown-- her eye a bright black bead that misses nothing. She does not scratch for feed from a measured tin, but takes her bounty! A freeholder of the alley, she owns the morning with her ragged cry. a libertine's good morning. 
The crown, a heavy sun. They bring him boar, swan + goblets of rubies + wine. We wait for the smile that does not come. A courtier trembles. The steward tastes the air for poison. But there are those that see it (what's always happened!) The  honeyed fig does not light his eyes-- all is consumed, none savored.  The great equalizer has never been a sword-- but the simple, ever-present  ash in a king's mouth.
The bell. A blur of white fists clash against a patient shell. The arena roars  in the customary tongue of many predators attending.  The whirlwind of jabs made technique wane  under the weight of quantity.  He fights their fight-- a cyclone of arrogance. But the shell remains--. a waiting wall... until, finally, the flurry tires-- a slow, dedicated piston of a left hook finds its mark. No, not a knockout-- a reoccuring truth. The overgrown rabbit slumps like a dope on the ropes-- gasping at the ceiling lights spotlighting the tortoise's raised glove into the stunned + silent air.
They build their palaces  on a foundation of quiet-- associate when your speech with a reckless yawp + whimper that your noise  is actually the problem. But I have seen the monuments  of the calm + sensible-- always draped in chains of silence. So, let them curse your fire-- see how they tremble  at the tremor of your voice. You, who eat the ashes of Pompeii. For the only good  this world has ever known arrives on the shattered air of your volcanic shout!
They took Her diagnosis-- used it for a commercial placed between multiple Thursday night comedies to explain the lethality of cancerous tumors to Modern Family fans. They claimed our last road trip spent as a family, together-- enjoying this world-- this life--Her’s-- for the sole purpose of a new drug's advert-- "Speak to your physician..." Those commercials should end with dedications.
Once, they held a tree's memory-- the bounce-back + gentle give-- the status to stand in a storm, but follow the wind's whispers.  Now, they are forced into rigidity-- a mandated forgetting-- taking the shape of cold geometry-- the perfect arc to meet a rib-- a painful thud + gasp-- where a laughter should laugh. They trade spring for sting-- soft recoil for the hard fact of a bruise blooming on our streets. What terrible alchemy-- to take what was meant to yeild + stretch the elastic it into a final, unbending answer.
After the last bright gulp-- when the sun kisses us last + all that is known is no longer-- a universe of pulp remains. A swirl of suspended stars-- concentric constellations clinging to the horizon's curve-- a cosmic map of light. This is just the dregs-- the sticky, fibrous stuff of life left behind-- The Milky Way-- a breakfast of galaxies. I've never been a morning person. 
The world, a constant murmur  of should + must-- a desert of demand. But within these walls of bone, a silence blooms. Thoughts, like date palms, offer their sweet fruit. Here, in this quiet soil-- I grow my own shade. The mind, the only oasis  that never runs dry.
The veil is a tatter of spider-silk-- a murder begins to gather-- the season of black-feathers begins. These messengers are punctuation for the story in between here + there. Is that a crow on the fence-post, a watchful sentry from a colder world? Is that a raven's croak from the woods, or the turning of a long-locked key? They know the secrets of the dead-- blur whispered tales of stone + bone-- speaking only to the wind's lonesomeness. This is their season-- hold close the permission to soar.
The mind, a map of brilliant lines. I know the path of all the nodes. However, the doing is the heavy stone-- the well of knowledge is known,  but stands alone. The chasm, a wide + ever-deep abyss-- where resolutions fall with a wish for courage.. This is the conundrum's weight-- the knowing hand, the hesitating gate-- every choice is one. 
The glass dropper holds a captured twilight. They say water remembers the press of petal the ghost of root the sigh of bark. So we ask the element to sublimate its own nature, to forget the ocean and remember the vine. A cure is just a story the solvent chooses to keep.
The brass is cold. A film of days gone dust on the lion's cheek. No one remembers the key that fit the lock below. But in the hall-- when the house holds its breath-- a faint + silver tinnitus-- the hum of a name-- erased. A shiver in the metal throat. A escutcheon for a ghost.
+ the worm, with its rings of decomposition speaks to the darkness "Your grit is navigation. Your chill is my warmth-- a buried awakening." But there is a scrutiny-- "you hold the roots too tightly-- clench secrets of the dead. Please, allow me to translate. We know all comes to you in the end. Let me be your soilent scribe.  We are a conversation."
It was simple-- well the technology wasn't, but the concept was-- something to do everything-- for you! They were called The Synthesis-- a line of home appliances  that would elevate all of the kin-keeping. The youngest of the adult children commented after the appliance-- this "addition to the family"-- spooned the exact amount of gravy atop the whipped + mashed potatos-- "I would rather have a Furby!"
The moon,  a polished lens of coldest silver focuses all the spot of light, then pours it upon the contours of you. The stars twinkle with conspiracy-- an infinity of bulbs capturing  the face of your beauty. Each diamond of eternity  trace the curve of your constellation-- catching the galaxy swirling in you.  The moon + the stars-- co-conspirators in this quiet crime-- stealing the darkness-- transforming it into the perfect canvas. They do not simply appear-- we conspire to love you!
A sudden crack-- the known flinching--  a collective wince traveling through the arriving crowd. It is the collective memory-- a silent chorus of held breath-- another graduation class practiced in duck + cover. "I thought it might be."
I, tried to stop sending a good morning text-- to refrain from holding your hand while driving thru; to keep a Dean mystery regarding these feelings; I attempted to love you James cool-- a style my heart knows not, no matter what I can't love you different.
The moment hangs-- a plump + silent potential-- the promise of a vinyl seat. How rare? A butt joke that's a question:  Will flatulence of the gods choose now? The artificial belch of that one type of seat-- the one that always farts! Allow the rose to your cheeks-- let gravity be silly.  In this exsistance,  we need more whoopie cushions. 
Please, double it-- yes, the depth-- it's worth extra effort. Ask those that spent time with me during pre-mortem-- "He's exhausted!" Here-- give me the shovel, I'll help! (See?)
The hope arrives-- crisp as the fall lakefront air.  It wears brusied blues + hues.  We open the door for it, this ghost.  We seat it on the couch,  offer it an Old Style beer. It speaks in a known language-- a bearable mantra of anew--of "this year!"  Hope takes the field + fumbles. We watch it fall,  during each fall,  all fall all again. The final whistle helps  Hope gathers its things-- leaving the static of the long, blue shadow of January-- patient, foolish heart that will, without question, answer the door  when it returns.
The paisley pattern is one of swirl + spiral-- it dances with color + hue-- a graceful design. My heart has been traced with such a wrapper of fabric since your love hugged round me. Now, the beat that keeps me, is draped in loving. Thank you for making my heart colorful-- it is better because of you.
They took the old one-- the original installed at birth-- known to sputter + stall-- choke on morning's fog-- it's always too early to start.  The new version resides, now, behind my eyes-- a steady purr of pure power. Thoughts are relentless-- surging currents engulf that which used to be only sparks.  The poetry I write has perfect meter-- but no soul. I have all the brain power,  but no soul. I get so much done,  with no soul. 
A tin, curved + cold doorway A smear of red-- a geometry of absence.  The ghost of tomatoes--  garlic + basil hangs in the air. This all, a world left behind.  Now, an invitation to what is missing.
It's been a week— we all believe this to be true, so, please, rest your feet— spread some peace— see this one's end as a chance to begin again— gratefully, on Monday.
The graph peaks-- a silver note in the noise.  A new thing--  a weight not yet felt! We polish the lens-- adjust the field-- lean in to see the particles... the familiar experience  of ink on a page.  The hum of meaning-- more than mass. A helixical scripture of itself-- explaining all of this-- the act of being read.
The old one, rolled + bound,  a scroll of dust  + our forgotten footsteps. (Out with the ghosts of tread!)  I unfurl the new + settle with a sigh (Mine or the floorboards?) Then, a warmth, a pattern shift,  a subtle change in the stich. (A conscious choice!) Now, I get a new rug, daily. You should come see-- only if you can knit.
It always starts just as most begins with an arbitrary action-- a waive, a smile-- something simple-- + then the world ends.
Amidst the 22nd century, war still exists-- even though past prophets begged of us to be different (a pastor King, a hallucinating dreamer, + a LSD guitar stringer.) Now, swatches of no-man divides us from believing, imagining, or kissing-- the sky is bluefully ballistic.
I am a field of sun-bleached silence--  a pale + patient dust. My world is the flat of the palm-- the cool ceramic belly of the bowl. I dream of a defining darkness-- yearn for a fermenting breath-- I beg for a warmth to split my heart. Oh, to know that rising-- that golden aching swell-- to be more than myself-- to be us.
As Moon sauntered along the boardwalk of Night's shoreline, I traced your face between moments of illuminations-- even if there is a galaxy of distance between us, our constellation can always be drawn within any 2:00 a.m. sky.
A mouth of stone ringed in damp + ancient moss.  I offer it my shadow + is swallowed swiftly. From the wet dark,  a cold breath ascends--  the pungent sigh  of forgotten water-- that which is beneath. I lean, the well leans back. 
A small, white sun of pure malice. Not a mere blemish-- this is a malignant moon-- risen on the tide of your skin. A tiny, furious king  building his bitter castle  in the center of your face. His only decree--pain.
A Cheshire has nothing on a shi tzu's grin-- a jovial planet  wobbling on its own axis.
A dropped biscuit-- a golden,flour-dusted moon  fallen from its warm sky. The linoleum is cold.  Boots stampede past its crust.  The Waffle House grill screams. Then, a strange warmth.  A new pulse in its crumb. It feels the gritty grease-- on + in it's batter-- hears the fryer's ancient rumble-- tastes the lonely salt of a dried tear. It knows. It is the quiet king  of this fluorescent night-- watching the cook's tired waffling-- blessing the cracked floor. A sentient but buttery soul  in the kingdom of the lost toast. 
I have known the kiss of legends-- the thunder of their perfect strikes.  I have swallowed countless triumphs-- each one leaving  the same shudder in my twine. I expected another.  Another blur of power, another practiced grace. But you--yours was different. An audacious stumble of a thing--  a hopeful scuff against the leather-- A prayer more than a shot. + when you found my embrace I trembled for you.  I held it longer,  this gift of your improbable joy.
My constant descent  into the spiral canyon of you, my groove-- a waltzing friction-- a cacophony's vow! I translate each of your ridges + curves into a trembling  treble of frequency-- my gasping song  sang by your sultry swurve . I am your mouth-- give me the reason  to take these waves of seeking soprano  into the aching bass of a voice left sanctified  by the sacrament of  song's submissive seduction. 
A shard of dropped night,  the black moon, stoops. A spider,  all its angles wrong-- a map of a country,  yet discovered. + the moon,  who knows the dark's  strange arithmetic-- who has seen stars  collapse into science, finds a kinship in the malformed.  For them, the street was not a street-- a gallery of the misfit + magnificent.
A forgotten bag-- the ghost of purchases past-- a sweet + putrid sigh. A cloying fog--thick as regret-- it blooms + burps in the heat-- a science experiment in a sealed car. The essence of neglect-- of green harvest turned to liquid memory. Now, it clings to the upholstery-- a reeking reminder that some trips linger... too long.