mickeymackenna

mickeymackenna

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ill

a cold washcloth gently placed on an old mans forehead, his skin is thin and translucent. freckles surround his eyes. clean white sheets that make up his bed.

from carnivals, to the moon, to freedom. the next one i buy will be the ticket that will change my life. that will be the ticket to what i have been anticipating my whole life. to independence and to solitude and to adventure.

a sentimental stick. a time of my life i have just recently ended, i look back on it with affection. affection for them, comforting me and allowing me to demonstrate my elegance, concentrating on blowing my smoke in a straight line, how it would dance when caught in the light like marble.

straw

sometime's you get the short one. nesting, jumping, pumpkin patches and the sound of horses biting into apples. games of luck and timing.

is never healthy. expecting a reaction, or lack of one. this only leads to trouble. open up let whatever shit is coming your way fuck you up and leave you wiser. then teach others.

cast

iron. pinky finger. confinement. that stench released and with it the longing unscratched itch. one on the face one on the heart they are cut with those saws that you swear will split open your skin but the saws are picky, they only want one kind of destruction.

there's lots of it. every step i take there's a remnant of my own history, history belonging to those who lived before me and live amongst me now. the weight of everyone's lives weaving around the weight of others. sometimes they intertwine.

held

held captive. held closely. hands cupping the sides of my face, my hair stuck between strong fingers. i cannot move, i cannot breathe. on the verge of implosion.

i do this from time to time. staring at the leaves in the trees above my head on my walk from home to home. the lines are blurry between wonder and worry. i wonder about the energies we put out in to the world and other sorts of intangible mysteries that flood our everyday existence.

train

hustling along, linear pleasure, gravel between the wood and the pennies left stray and squished. the tracks in my father's hometown, when he took joy in spending time with me, with anyone, when he took joy. when i had him.

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you wrote about ill
“a cold washcloth gently placed on an old mans forehead, his skin is thin and translucent. freckles surround his eyes. clean white sheets that make up his bed.”

the words you reach for

othersbelievewonderdrawstronghomeplaideyescravingtryingdesperationhatsmindyourselfsometimesself