The smallest moments are the largest doorways
To step outside of oneself
It is a tight fit
Requiring effort and sensitivity
But worth the effort
As the scale of the world rotates
Away from timetables and deadlines
Past the horizons, equators, and tropics
_by Thomas Typewriter
Mice with lice
All that can die
Better they shine
No refunds for overtime
Larger than patience
All that can design
Move the conveyance
Mettle the temperance
Maze. Mustard. Rye.
-by Thomas Typewriter
The rock sighs heavy thoughts
Disappearing into the mud
Lower than known
Minerals in stone
Down, Down,
Past where the bones dissolve
And as the distance adds
Always failing
To realize
The gravity of the situation
-Thomas Typewriter
A beautiful thing
Yes, a beautiful thing
Sits alone on a shelf
Wondering,
Pondering,
What is my true self
When I find
To my voice,
To my charms,
All are deaf
-Thomas Typewriter
A small voice struggles
To say words of old
There is much to say
In languages of yesterdays
A grammar of coincidence
A small voice rumbles
To shout words gone cold
Moments make letters
Like snowflakes in winter
A grammar of incidents
-Thomas Typewriter
In every action
In every choice
I am unsure
I’ll collapse
Folding in on yourself, Supernova in reverse
In every thought
In every feeling
I am unsure
I’ll collapse
-Thomas Typewriter
I was born to fly
Is a phrase married to
Why can’t I move
Building homes in the small spaces
Where headlamps kiss brakelights
sunkissed danish
Holding large parties where
More cars join the turtle dance
Of stop, stop, go
-Thomas Typewriter
Hello again from the other side
The signal is clear
The signal is strong
Do not turn from our invite
We know where you stand
We know where you fight
So what do you say?
Shall we have a conversation tonight?
Rivulets slide across the abdomen
Uneven caresses to a forgotten song
Rivers run
Rivers rage
Where floods the words when it rains
Aches leaving stains in the daylight
Rivers run
Rivers rage
-Thomas Typewriter
Blind to the times
Witches work their rhymes
Old words linger
Within those castles carved from sand
A reminder to all who remain
That a litany of words written by many hands
Speaks in a voice raspy and sublime
-Thomas Typewriter
Thomas Typewriter 
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