superfluous breaths like water tides pulling the horrid eye of the blue moon, so riddled in caucasian romantic numbness i forget the voices that came before and will come again … i must remember this … my father is my ground, my mother my sky, and my brother my forgotten desire, dancing with me here in the riverwalk silver lining of the canned fruit of being … the sweat of the fruit, the fructose of the moment … is not always as recognizable as i think it should be, which is the pointed arc of reality, i must wait for it to fucking hit like a lightning streak and have the will to stand up after the fall …