Wednesday 8/24/2016 02:09:00 AM

precision betrays the earnest lover. the silence erupts between them. voices like confetti in a storm. touch stutters. in the choke of need. against the strangle of want.

the road closes. the galling literal against the trimphant perpetuity of  the allegorical. stone roads through paper terrain. never more certain than when doubt begins to lsiten.

exigent autopsies on if. eagerly interrupted. careless wizards concealed behind thick curtains.

lost's turbine presses. spilling impromptu maps like blood. the turns inflict their bruises. the intersections make their cuts. it's a murder of distances. the broken math of scars. the earnest poetry of scabs.  slowly coming off.

the day consumes. with all its appetite for progress. the anchor sways. the vessel is loose. the depths give way to shallows. but we're drowning just the same.

Thursday 8/18/2016 11:03:00 PM

missing turns chase the road. curious angles draw the map.the truth is that line that creates the horizon. the division between Earth and sky. the place we long to reach that always recedes as we approach it. feather and bone without wings.

the world encroaches. all detours and drawbridges. ripe enough on its own. but sweeter on the return.

the years sweat and bleed. a long series of open wounds. we're hurt. we heal. repeat.

the chase takes us farther. the hunt brings us home. the appetite of the flesh and the hunger of the soul.

there are intersections. colors coaxed from skin. greys still to be told. life moves through us. a raging locomotive. emerges on the other side a trembling victim.

words fail to find us as we languish in the depths of our discovery. this paradise of ghosts.

Monday 8/15/2016 11:46:00 PM

the world is soft. ruptured pillows and bent feathers. reluctnant amateurs pressing against the wind. urged by their hunger. spurned by their feast. the sour desserts of truth and impatience that coalesce to give life to our yearnings.

empty cans and broken glass. common roadmaps to desperate wisdoms.

the vein is receptive. the path is there. only the destination remains elusive.

paper roads tear and shred under the weight of our progress. the cold confetti of optimists and fools.

the world presses. stirred by devotion. sculpted by memory.

the maps have their secrets. the places have their murmurs. we are left with the remainder. long goodbyes and abrupt detours.

Thursday 8/11/2016 12:23:00 AM

the blood is a witness. the flesh is on trial. hope marches like broken soldiers off to wars already lost. we are spent. gluttons of surrender. merchants of consequence. travellers in our broken time machines. actors in gravity's drama.

the force of the moment erupts. as sudden as it is expected. it's a gentle violence. the burden of time. the luxury of patience. all the threads of intimacy that tend to unravel us.

the bruises are a measure. the pain is a yardstick.

the road snarls. the distance barks. it's all as far away as it's ever been. and closer than ever.

there's always flight. we soar. effortlessly lifted by the wind. then are quickly discarded. twisted by the force of impact. crushed by the velocity of our passions.

crippled, but determined to keep running hard.

Friday 8/05/2016 01:45:00 AM

colors change. patterns stall. uphill. downhill. around the world. gravity does its worst to make us fall.

we wear the zippers. stubborn thieves in a panic of skin.

choices have their poisons. the future has its kingdom. Warm cages and delicate relics occupy crumbling flesh. no time for immunity in the throes of loss.

the road has its voices. the intersections breathe. curious monsters that devour our minuscule wars.

we only go so far on our own. distance has its limitations. the corners turn us. leaves thrown from their branches. choking on the wind.

the unexpected always happens. the world ends quickly. without much ado. spent on a trajectory of epiphany and regret. the path collapses and we are small again.

shaky letters in a library of smudged flesh. .a carnival of bones in an apocalypse of  skeletons.

Sunday 7/31/2016 11:32:00 PM

I don't thnk love has anything to do with it. It's just a byproduct of desperation. We're gatherers by nature. We collect things. They comfort us. We collect people and places the same way insects gather shit. It's the same.

We don't grow old. We begin to fade. The wind starts to die and our banners go limp.

I don't know why we're together. We don't belong here. Random lives that happened to stall on the same desolate highway. I don't understand why we touch. Feeling only nothing as we do. Unless this emptiness is the temptation.

Except that this is the end. The flesh is soiled. The fuse is spent. And the fire we remember has all but forgotten us.

We don't speak. There are no words. We exchange our poisons and hope for the best.

I loved once. Very briefly. It was bright and rich. All meat. No bone.

Like every love it was overly confident up until the very instant it was broken.

By then it was too late. We were too hopeful to reason with.

Life stumbled toward us. Small and loud and furious. All kettle drums and poker faces. Sinew and skeletons on a casual collision course.

I loved once. It was quick and harsh and unsympathetic. All lightning and thunder. And over before I could say it had begun. Sudden and impotent. And it hurt. It still does.

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