Saturday 8/01/2015 11:36:00 PM

the path is confessed. the spoiled and the raw. earnest puzzles of skin in a contention of want. the distance is defiant. bones and thoughts like broken buoys taken hostage by a storm. time works its cruel magic. a plague of hysteria and tenderness. negotiating with the slender devil in each glance. chasing the feral wolf in every pause. such are the irrevocable utopias we construct in the slums of our hearts.

small sticks. big drums. no music.

the edge knows her. a gravity of parlor tricks and temporary forevers. casual martyrs in the dusty archives of her fading charms.

a villain loud enough to love.

drawbridges. quiet and absolute. tempted by the ocean's shallow hunger. thieves. more cylinder than combustion. corrupted by obedience.

Monday 7/27/2015 11:40:00 PM

turn by turn. the road overtakes us. progress comes in stubble and skin. moist and dense. a curious surrender. in a vague war. on a lonely planet. in a place that won't remember. in a time that doesn't forget.

questions. the stutters of how. like broken pencils stabbing the page. a storm of absent words that turns thieves into artists.

she finds herself in the sharp corners and the empty creases. more metaphor than person. more anthem than skin. all hearts are communist. all bodies are capitalists.

the obvious bridge shouts her name. the simple math of love and strangers. as if there is a difference. her eyes like open zippers. all useless teeth. her voice like knotted rope. hopelessly connected.

all the places. a conundrum of epiphanies. all warm swimming pools and dead batteries. all the world. as small as she remembers it. flowing in torn maps and running with broken scissors. feeble hunts and trembling wounds. filling the meat. chewing on the bones. dying radios in a blizzard.

all the miles. invisible monsters in a spectacular parade. matches and scrapes. a rumble of gravity. a fistful of falling. the clarity of doubt. the certainty of surrender.  chase away the stubborn fairy tales that still remain.

the plague of want. all manual transmissions and sweating brakes. hinging gods. and their swinging doors. crippled heavens with crutches made of vomit.

7/20/2015 11:44:00 PM

life exists at angles much too sharp. loud and  deaf. uneven and trembling. a relentless series of  abandoned hopscotch fields and broken tethers. reluctant stones lost in gravity's narrow grip.

 remembered in whispers. happening in screams.

pictures. faces. distance. the pace of thunder. the sober of the storm. creases in the chaos that lick the marrow at the center.

eyes. skin. voices. the infinite geometry of the smallest moments.  somber sunday strays wandering abandoned streets. in search of places that only barely exist.

the little dog. the big demons. particles of gods in the molecules of men.

fleeting utopias that refuse to be forgotten. the beautiful poisons life graciously permits. the long shadows of ghosts in the dark attic of our mind. the short wick of hope that burns so briefly in our veins.

the math of it is simple. though the theory of it is complex. numbers. a slouching epiphany christens the flesh. a labored  bridge embraces the distance that moves us.  be it the expansive fever of strangers. or the narrow sickness of love.

Thursday 7/16/2015 12:10:00 AM

the broken knob. the spoken gasp. on the margin. the solvent edges collapsing into lost. tired aggressors with too many choices.

the outlines of god. waiting for color. the weapons of war. in worn flannel and spent cigarettes. the perpetaul wilderness of when. a wealthy merchant of desperation. painted. thick in the dense authenticities of skin.

wagered. spent. a corruption of moments. soft hammers in the soil of her panic. the hours clay. the years artists. counting. trying to keep track of the missing steps.

the end doesn't listen. the world still goes on. though she is in pieces, the whole clings to the parts.

the monsters stumble. a simple engine.  the villains fail. gravity shrugs. the witch is defeated. her eyes are candy. the wolf bites down. the oven opens. there are no heroes in this empty fairy tale. just the stubborn ghosts with keys that unlock nothing. and names they can't take with them.

the ladder shrinks. the fiction stabs. there are moments. all of them are borrowed. there are words. knots in the corpses. loose threads betray the depths of her needle.

it's dark. an amity of words. it's quiet. a corruption of want. melted candles against the fever of god.  there is panic. the poetry of lost. in dwindling pills and narrow utopias.

Sunday 7/12/2015 11:24:00 PM

the voice is corrupt. all loose knots and ignorant transitions. like the ripple of skin as we pretend to fit. and the whisper of blood as we commit to the wounds. the silk of gravity juxatoposed to the sandpaper of touch.

the smaller monsters tame enough. those didactic negotiations with the biggers ones.


morality taut. all tree branches and fallen leaves. nervously arguing with gravity. 

a chaos of time  in a certainty of flesh. the bone are absolute. we are stolen from the edge of ourselves. a ripe hysteria of choices. a silent war thick with the dead.

the days spend their vague funerals. the currency of grief. exhausted, but tenable.

simple moments consume us. all the rest are lost.

the maps are drawn in pencil. the bridges are always ink. these paper lives resist the wind. at least until it rains again.

permanent predators with temporary fangs.

7/05/2015 11:38:00 PM

the wind never listens when we ache for change. the road wrinkles. the distance yawns. we are taken. seduced by circumstance. raped by chance.

speed seldom notices. we are orphans. the taper of the flame is our guidepost. the rumor of its warmth is our destination.

the pictures take us. the wink of the moment like some poisonous adhesive. spoils the memories with expectations.

the past has its needles. the future has its threads. diligent demigods in their faltering heavens.

we wait for the bridges to close. then they finally do. and we begin again. waiting for them to open.

the theory absolves us. the silence roars in the dark. a monster and a child. a fever without a cure.

we wallow the in the theory of rescue. we drown in the notion of god.

the reluctant rain whispers. the anxious hour plots. tattered maps drawn in earnest sickness.

the distance has claws. but only time has teeth.

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