we are most alive in dreams

This blog is officially three years old.

Funny how time moves away from us. A measurement that we place so much significance on. Even the best of us cannot escape it.

And so most of you may know that Yahoo! is in the process of purchasing Tumblr for $1.1 billion. Cash. Billion. That’s a lot of money.

Which puts a funny feeling in my stomach. I have a lot of questions that already found the inbox of the Tumblr support folks. They may never get answered, and so I will put my concerns here as well.

What will happen to the three years of my original content if this sale goes through? Will the privacy and protection conditions change? Will I no longer own the rights to what I have put here for three years? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I will begin the painstaking process of taking a good portion of my material off of Tumblr. Not all of it, but the possibility of my thoughts, feelings, and words being in jeopardy has my stomach in knots.

And the reason for this is I may remove myself from Tumblr altogether, leaving only a skeleton of my progression as a writer. To look back on from time to time. To cherish as a place where I poured out my heart.

Happy Birthday, words. Perhaps it is time to move on.

Young boys
and girls hitting,
fireflies with
badminton rackets
in the field across
the street, shrieking
with joy as tiny
bodies explode,
like fireworks.

Mothers and fathers
drink in the garage,
pale yellow
cascading, words
sliding gently and
the divorced bodies
ache to be touched,
hoping to erode
towards dawn.

All anyone
needs, is
for someone
to believe,
in them.

Slept six inches
from beautiful people,
pickled in champagne
and stoned, whispering
about five years ago
when happiness was
plucked from the roots,
of ponderosa pine groves.

We are a single
consciousness,
thatched with tendrils
of coastal foam and
Midwest pocket
watch grease.

I will release myself
into the natural wonder,
that is a collection of
magnetic souls when
the desert asks for
my name again.

I had something
for the headaches,
but lost my way:
Empty house
caverns suck at
the edges of
my frame-worked
molecules,
in dim light from
flickering candles,
set neatly on wood
counters during black-
out struggles
in Winter’s chest.
Announcing, fear at the
door frames, ticking
seconds with sweat beads
and palpitations. Foolish boy,
you are no man.

Stood up
by imaginary

friends, left
to forget about
belief in cleft

tongues where,
promises sit-

Too many missed
phone calls,
from those

once kissed:
Is this what
guillotines
feel like?