It's all constantly changin, rearrangin, morphin and makin room for somethin just a little more advanced. And I am left behind. The scenery is torn to strands. I'm a tourist taking pictures in a foreign land. The rains about to pour, but then my fingers stretch out towards your hand- the last attempt of a sordid man to make this whole place mine and yours again. We had a little bit- a lot of it was so bizarre. But when we were little kids we got to know it all by heart. Now my vision's shit, the sky is split, it's cold and dark. Get in quick; I got some shit for this. I got a car. Fuck it, it's a ship- a rocket ship- it's Noah's ark! When the sea's a mess, its GPS can get home by the stars ...plus it glows in the dark, streamers on the handlebars, and whatever those colorful things that slide on the spokes are called, a bell, a basket, and a button that you press to start blasting ice cream truck music on acoustic guitar. But every tale we tell is just another lie. And every lie we say is just another game. And every game that we play is just another paperweight, and a weight made of paper ain't a way to make it stay. Every paperplane that's left out on a rainy day will always wilt away. The storm will always have its way. And all there is to do is hope you're floatin when it ceases. The ship can only leave the bottle broken into pieces. Gut it.

My bicycle is broken. But it's ok. My dad can fix it. He has a bag of wishes that he keeps his magic tricks in. And if I hit a rock, my dad, he's got a box about the length of our garage, where he keeps bicycle band-aids, just in case a tire pops. And two rungs below, among the dust, there glows a bucket cold with nuts and bolts. And when his hands form cups to hold these rusty old metal fillings, they turn to chunks of gold that can hold together buildings. In my backyard, above the rocks, he built a house among the feathers. He brought me closer to the heavens just by slamming boards together. In my backyard, there's a tree with arms that seem to scrape forever. But as perfect as that seems, my dad built wings that made it better. And he built this giant bar that goes straight across my yard, with these legs that dig hard into the ground and stand guard. And from that bar, he hung these swings. And when I'd swing, I'd pump so hard that I'd push the clouds apart. And at the top, I'd stall, and right before I'd fall, I'd kinda float, among the stars, on the ends of iron ropes. See, my dad built a kingdom, without making a single metaphor. His bare hands drew life from a backyard. My childhood was spent on the edge of a pendulum, stretchin' out my legs, tryin' to reach that star. My dad was a magician, a mathemetician, a blacksmith-beautician, patchin' stitchin' fact and fiction. He had this mad ambition. And pure love. And he may have been the last thing that I was sure of. See, my father isn't perfect. He's a whole bunch of problems that crept up to the surface, as they piled up in corners. My dad didn't know that this world had nothing for him, so he kept reaching upwards towards nothing, forests. Fuck it. Torches. Burn 'em. He used to have this shit down pat - this, being a person - but sometimes it seems like his life wasn't lived on purpose. My dad was a huge, fuckin' enormous fire burnin,' but my father's leftovers, forgotten in a thermos. Room temperature. Unused, underdone. My father had a wife that my dad used to love. My dad, he was a genius. And my father is one too. But see, my dad, he had ideas. And a buncha shit to do. My dad he was a dreamer - dreams so big they don't come true. And now my father's mad, 'cuz my dad didn't do it. Now it's through. My father is a whole bunch of unfinished projects - walls half primed like they dried when the tide came. He's a boat in a backyard moat of overgrowth, a pair of rusty motorcycles dedicated to a driveway. He's that bar, where the swings used to be, back when I was too young to see anything he didn't show me. Back when he would lift me up, so I could dream without being distracted by the solid ground below me. My dad built a kingdom, without making a single metaphor. His bare hands drew life from a backyard. My childhood was spent on the edge of a pendulum, stretchin' out my legs, tryin' to reach that . My dad was a magician, a mathemetician, a blacksmith-beautician, patchin' stitchin' fact and fiction. He had this mad ambition. And pure love. And he may have been the last thing that I was sure of. I'm not sure. Now I often think of poetry and pick my nails instead, 'cuz I'm afraid it won't live up to the visions in my head. It all seems so weightless, when we're floating, but then, you can't sleep forever. You have to descend. And when I woke up, what I realized was- everything seemed so real. Now it's me and my dust. Everything seems so real- everything that I love. But all his dreams seemed so real, 'til his dreams all dried up. So what does that mean for me and my stuff? It was all so real. I could swing so high up.