The song. Deafness in long cautions. Always have been. Misled. Thinking the sound was enough. Slanted walls. Ceiling pretending to be floor. The joke. The threat of fingers too close to the truth. Falling forward. Into when. I can only claim to remember having been someone. Turning off the alarm. In a slow dance. Between blindness and waking up. This void. The only bridge. Always open. Go through. Not over.

Looking up at falling. The hours talk loudly. In metaphors. The mountains are small. The molehills giant. The minutes an aperture. A lens taking pictures in black and white. Of all the colors I still want.

The thief in her underwear. Takes nothing she hasn't already lost. The ransom in her heart. Remains ignored.

Old movies. Grainy orgasms in fraying nightgowns. It was night. But it wasn't dark. There were moments. Gobs of spit on the tip of her tongue. She would mistake for opinions. Angry memories. Neglected whores. Finding their pimps. In the people who love them. Dead batteries. Marathons of. Pressing the numbers. Watching the movies.

As if, there were more than one.

Big dicks in little holes.

The whore is choice.

The dark. Science in her breathing. A catastrophe. Of men. Arranging their needles. Cures not needed. A campaign of flesh for the new disease. Little cancers on her fingertips. And the vaccines that come from knowing. Alone is not temporary.

The art of the child is that the woman never remembers how she came to know. These essentials. Of survival. The art of the child is that the colors happen slowly. So many graves to dig. Too few funerals. It wants to be saved, but I can't.

Spilling my pulse into corpses. Looking forward to being eaten by the zombies. Isn't that just like the woman. And the child. To prefer the sacrifice.

Drawing on cardboard. The poor man's epiphany. I'm here. Now what. Tearing away the color. Flesh. Like melting crayons. Reaches the edges. Eventually.

It's all filled in. Now what?

Love. Like contact lenses. Too close to the eye.

I can see everything. and nothing.

I could blame the sky, but the rain would not stop falling.

Small. Isn't that what we are?

Colors. Pebbles scraping her palms. The painting. In long strokes. He never finishes. Wise drugs working on the edge fo his tongue. The child in her torn frock. Addressing a failing crowd. Liars eager to pounce.

Crayons. Dark lines slowly filling in. The child. In failing underwear. Biting down on the thermoter. Swallowing the mercury. Soft metal running through thick veins. Coiled and venomous. As these bits of skin.

Backwarde in the time machine. Counting nothing. The promise blossoms. Dead flowers. Rain. Choices. Bound to the time machine flesh travels away from us. Spreading its cancer. Leaving bheind only the skeletons.

And dying things I cannot save. Drowned in the lies we use to love each other. Years. Butterflies sneezing. Changes. Negotiating with these time machines too stubborn to admit.

That they were wrong.

The table was heavy with nothing. Knives and cups and plates waiting sober for the thrill of lips. The humble epiphany of touch that gives life to dead things. Outlines all those ghosts. So we can see what we've lost.

Her silence the scale all his words were weighed upon. Her silence like a prostitute between her legs. A volcano of pointless sex. Incinerating everything in its path.

Her fingers the ambulance. Too slow. Too small. Too late. The dead strewn. Dried flowers on the hips of the wind. Scattered. The living. Contorted placentas. Spilling out after rushed abortions.

Blood like lions roaring. Skin like hyenas stealing.

All these dead things.

Long tails. The mule on the empty cart. Still pulling. Alone. Ambivalent. The sting of estrogen belittles her epiphany. The courage of thieves. To take. The wisdom of martyrs. Not to ask.

The rules of dead gods still heavy in her conscience. Blank sheets. To scratch at. With dried up pens. The words are there. Cockroaches humming in the darkness behind the walls. Only there when she's not looking. The years are certain. This many. No more. Drowning in her empty hands.

Short eyes. In tolerant confessions. Trying on the lie. In swatches of skin. The chill of denim. Paler than sleep. Pawns dressed as kings. The quantum. Canonical lapses in her field of. Alone. Ambivalent. Christ in little pills. Cures everything. And nothing.

Gods in tall hats. Alone with the man. He is good. He is bad. And everything a deity might want. But nothing that a woman would crave. The fissure stalls. Somewhere in the middle of the experiment. And sex is born. Touch only a manufacture of the mind. Irrelevant. Those protons playing tag. These cells their playground.

The end unfolds in brief surprises. No saviors. No demons. Just as I was. Am. The thrill of a dying. More slowly than I ever thought I could. The devil in fancy dresses. Crashing parties. Smudging their alibis. Murders in broken sentences.

The world stops and I get off. Or at least think I did. But everything is still spinning.

Not lost. Just can't decide where I'm going.

Hearing only half of everything that was said made her consider that everything is not always there. It must be noticed. Nothing can be proven. Our reality is merely the humble malfunctions of infinitely intersecting perceptions. Even so. It is all we have. All that we are.

A nightmare preserved in the sweat stains on a girl's pillow. Waking up is only a contradiciton. Hope spoiling quietly in the hardening crust on discarded latex. Touch is only a means to an end I don't want. The child is incredulous. The woman is deaf.

She sleeps. She dreams. Both light and dark. She sleeps. She wakes. There is no world. Only the difference. Between now and then. Everything is loud. Everything is quiet.

She counts backwards from zero. Assuming she will find the beginning. And finally understand which lies are worth telling.

The dust on the letters filling the air as she tries to determine. What it is she knows. And what she only thinks she does.

It's always cruel to tell the truth. There are no exceptions.

The autumn of her lips falling. Mediocre suicides. Stabbing. Heels and nail polish. Long holidays. Talking to no one. In deadly whispers. Of how many of me there are. Now that i've learned how. To calculate forever.

Divide by zero. Ignore the logic. Of self-proclaimed good men. Try on the dress. Be pretty for only a moment. Any longer doesn't suit her. The broken ladders. The empty stairwells. That want to climb, but can't go any higher.

The bite of oblivion in her lips. The Arithmetic of having been tasted. Lose me. The time line is corrupted. Lie to me. About when. Or if it ever mattered.

The only real drug is us. The only true addiction is if.

Turn on the siren. I'm a criminal. Find me. Still trying to arrange. These stepping stones to heaven.

I could tell the world. Convince it that I'm somewhere else.. Because I am. But why push it waway when we've come so close.

To proving. This suicide is not so selfish.

If you love me. If you ever did. I can't imagine how. Thin sticks beat the ground. The frivilous music of dead men. Their heads bigger than their hearts. Their time machines stuck on what if.

Grandma comes apart. In thin threads. Of lessons not learnned. Witches only half in the oven. This skin teeming with lessons I may never learn. Because the touch is too easy. Too seldom. Penises like darts. Aim for something too far away. From these shakey hands.

Her thighs were all subtraction. Her tits were merely remainders in the process. There was time she thought to travel both the future and the past. If she could only divide that much. Bite down on those atoms one by one. Like broken fingernails. Find the fractions.

Teach them the math of lonely men.

Take care with naming the parable. Count your wolves carefully. Make note of your little pigs.

Fairy tales are too much like skin. Asking so much. Proving nothing. Frankensteins on hte verge of sex. Monsters in her weekday. Borrowing from thicker concussions.

Words. In fits of oblivion. Gods debating. Ambivalent saviors.

The mythology of skin in paper cuts. So many gods. So little blood.


Just the nagging ache that accompanies the fear that i've said too much.

And the knowledge that the end to this coma lies within.

It takes too long to remember. Even longer to forget. And it only matter because it's broken. Because I want more than it is.

The rabbit in the orchestra. Was tuning its harp. 280 degrees at most she declared. It's just blood. Years of fruitless sex. Evolution not evolving. And so I am. Both perpetual and fleeting. As much as any comma is. Lost in the throes of rogue sentences. And ignorant paragraphs. As if the clock could measure. Or in any way quantify. The depth or currents of the ocean. Or speed up this drowning.

Life comes in sobs. Huffs of others' skin. Cloying and oppressive. Words like potions mark the start. And the finish. Liars tell their stories to the deaf. And I hear them.

Dull scissors cut out the paper dolls. Shaky hands unfold the results. I go too far. Too many of me. Too thin. Plain white rainbows sneak in after the rain. Offering a path to the sun, but no colorso at all. To accompany it.

The brake pedal in her heart full of fluid. The engine hot and trembling. With places she must go. Dirty pit stops on the road to nothing.

Lovers like roadkill.

It was in yesterday that tomorrow became clear. Fundamental ghosts. The attic unprepared for their visit. The election. Time campaigning hard. To move me. The bridge. Frozen in the open positions. All ships able to pass through. No one. Nothing. Capable of crossing it.

I had apples in my basket. Trees I could recall looming in the shade of. Still young enough to assume the fruit would always fall.

Skin. Depth. Long streaks of comic book. Sheets drying in the wind. Thougthless. The clean stolen from them.

The words on the small of her wrist. Minutes counting to nowhere. Nothing. The world. In hungry slurps. Drinking us in. As we were only water. To quench. Its endless thirst.

For people. Excuses. That it should still be here. After all these years of having disappointed us.

Time stops every now and then. No one notices. The skins the world has shed. Or the people who are counting the minutes until it starts again.

Flesh. Calm matador of when. Urge the bull to rush.

Liars with long yardsticks measure the truth in snickers of quarks. Lonely atoms flirting with the surface of the bomb. We woke up the devil from his nap. And now he wants a lullaby.

The square root tells us how. Work backwards from the negative. Solve for nothing. Ignore the rest. Go there. That the future yields to the whims of fickle flesh. Time only a loud heartbeat in empty hands. Life limping from fist to fist. In games of giving away what has yet to exist.

The man on his page. Stabbing hard blank sheets of paper. Ready eyes blaming the emptiness for what he cannot say.

The anomoly. Weak men. Weaker women. Blame the arithmetic. As their numbers dwindle.

So many of us. So few.

I brace myself for the algebra of his touch. A menagerie of zeros. Coo our exchange of skin. A circus of lips claim our faces. As if time still knew. The proximity of when. The nature of the if. The creaky swing. Almost near enough. To catch itself. As I become the one to find her that way.

Still the x is solved to nothing new.

Something close to now. Or maybe later. The time on his wrist fibrillating. Wide and assuming x is constant. The end. The truth in fits of vomit. The future names its price. The past negotiates. No one buys either one.

I was so young then. And now I'm not. I was everything. And now I'm nothing.

His eyes counting the minutes between pussy and friend. Different doses for different addictions. Maybe time isn't as smart as I thought it was.

We're always fooling it. Into thinking it owes us more.

Fire escapes on the back of her neck. Where the words argue with the their saviors. What to save. And when. Now. or Then?

Or isn't all the same.

Skimming the surface of heaven. Collecting my demons in broken math. The eternal paradox. I can go there. But if i do, I can never go back.

The time lines of lonely men answer enough.

Thw box on its side. Three dimensions to blame. For gravity. sleep. and sex. The book. The tape on its spine. Choking on the words inside. Picking at the pages. Hoping for new blood. The octopus. All eight arms grabbing at the hours given it. At dead skin. Threading the needle. Sewing the pieces together. With riddles of how it still matters if.

The noose. In small sips. Of lemonade needles. Presweetened skin. The citrus of his touch biting hard into stale meat. Take it raw. Red and wet with the things we have killed. Swallow slowly. Everything is dead.

The dollhouse. The gemoetry of men proving nothing. Taking off her tiny doll shoes. In compartments of why. The drug too distant. The excuse too close. The years. Proficient mimes. The hours wasted comedians. Lost and saved in the same breath.

The tv muted. The walls determined to know. Why she's still awake.

Two movies. One sad. Two hands. One empty.

Wake up! He shouted. I'm bored. But she had so been enjoying being deaf.

The hammock between her legs. Swinging softly with the absence. Of so many things she almost had. All skin is borrowed. She tries them on. All touch is artificial. Tastes sweeter than it is.

The science of alone. A debatable ratio of now and then. We are here. And there. The crush of possibilities soothes the dead. She stares. Anticipates him flipping that switch in her grin. The long laugh of curious molecules colliding with fact. Radiant heat. The catastrophe of together. Atoms colliding.

The map festering in her skin. Bloated blisters erupting with the places she's never been. Occasionally she convinces time to forget. but always. too soon. it remembers.

Playing cards with the devil. Betting everything on nothing. Pretending to know why there are.

Two bodies. But only one motive.

One nail of the wall. Waiting for a portrait.

The coward is an ideal lover. Leaves me glad they are gone. That I know the difference between now and then. The crooked abacus in his pants counting backward from zero. The sad face on his watch looking up at me as I wondered how many hours we'd wasted ignoring each other.

The compartment. Stitches in the soles of her feet. As she stumbles forward. Through careless traffic. On crowded streets. Graves between her tits. Counting on their corpses to make them whole.

It's just intersections. All of it. The words we speak. The skin we grab. Dead flowers of seeds not planted. Calm paradoxes debating with empty underwear. Shrodinger's cat alive and dead inside his cruel experiment. Just like we are.

It's all about not knowing when to stop. Listening for the crack in the ice and stomping on it.

The moon was close. The stars were far. She had her time machine in her back pocket. So she could go back without being seen. So she could prove the doll wasn't naked, but later undressed. To sneak the poison into those needles. Steal the vaccine from the disease.

Don't try too hard she warned him. as the dress obscured her face. Blindness is a condition of wanting what we can't have.

Tell me the truth. That I don't matter. And never will. That you're more defective than empty beds can cure. Tell me lies. That I mattered. The friction of clean sheets on dirty skin. The cage door opening. All prisoners afraid to leave.

The moon gets too close sometimes. Especially when you're looking up. The lies will do. Melting snowmen. Time machines to argue with. As everything and nothing.

changes.

I thought you knew better than to trust. Broken levers. The selfish math of time machines consuming us.

Laughs the mimick in gelid chokes. A jelly smirk on rigid cheeks. I don't know love. And she doesn't know me. Strangers always. Strangers close enough to strangle each other. Fables taught in peeling skin. The moral always that I'm always naked. They can see all of me. Even from my hiding place.

New skin comes in retches. Bile. Acid. Flaunting up my throat. Spoiled badges of courage no one will read.

Choices. These clown shoes. Make me stumble. No matter how slowly I run. Lovers. These zippers behind my head won't stay closed.

Her face draw on her. By strangers with broken crayons. Her skin a dark outline on a blank page. Still waiting to be filled in.

It's not like I was trying. Was just pretending I knew what to do. With all these people.

The world isn't laughing at me. It doesn't even know I exist.

People. Random thieves. Empty graves. So amny keys we use as bait.

You want it to be over, but you're still sad when they stop trying to take it.

The bull calculates. Seldom matadors color in their capes. The darkness is a womb. I'm born too often. Ugly men. Like placentas spill out afterward. Useless now.

Tracing the vein. Road maps under my skin. Of drugs taken. And places I can never go again. Following the clown. His white face like sex. Stark and hard to forget.

The trial. The jury. Cogent manipulations. Failing arguments. Of lonely men. Pretty doors in the child. Broken window in the woman.

The lie in warm blankets. Still shivering. The hour demanding explanation. For the stories we are left with.

The parade in long confession. Stitches not set. The emergency room. Full of people. All of them me.

The rain. The words. Sheeting down from a pointed roof.

Liars. Bug bites. Scratching. to scold for all this missing skin.

The ladder in short poems. sad enough to ignore. So many vampires. Fangs close to the skin. Pretntious matadors tease the horns.

That was it. A series of questions. Drowned kittens spilling from dark buckets.

I meant to be kinder, but it's difficult.

I laughed at the sober as any addict would. Lovers like waterfalls. Tearing all these barrels apart.

Time comes in flinches. Punches of skin that make the heart blink. It cries that it can't see. But I know that it has always been blind.

She dresses the doll. In the remnats of old
men. She tells herself no one is looking. As she removes its head.

The poor detective between her thighs still stuck on the first clue.

Slow words fishing too long. In empty lakes. The colors were true. It was the bait that lied to us. I've had enough men. To be a woman any man would want. I've been silent. I've been loud. It's all the same. Touch like pantyhose. Tears easily. Leaves too much skin exposed.

Cocky men. Dicks wagging. Frail and obnoxious. Games of sex. Tiny Monopolies. Cheapen was she gave away. And all that she received. In her bed. Reveal the suspects. Pass go. Collect her. Masturbate. Imagine. Someone still wants. What you pretend to give.

Your words. Play money. Make you rich. Buy you nothing.

The old men. Penises in denial. Liars. Sad pricks. Boast. The edges of the woman. Fingertips of dolls. Wolves shouting through mediocre fangs. About how hungry they are.

I'm full of holes. None of which you can fill.

Old men. Virulent proposals. Thirsty dicks. Drink the puss. Dubious infections. Sicken the girl. Strengthen the woman.

Alone. Hopeless. I've been weak enough to recognize it in others.

His words. Mosquito bites. My itch. Too deep to scratch. The virus in our skin. Infecting all our other parts. Touch. The contagion. That's killing everything.

His words. The cemetery. My eulogy. Alive in my coffin. Dead in my flesh. The clown nose in his face. The suspenders in his breath. I close my eyes and go there. I've never been anywhere else.

I stab the picture. Mosquito bites. Lingering itches.

I scratch. Until no skin is left.

The plan in his back pocket. The contingency bored with him.

What will we do now that itch has subsided.

Mars in her eyes. Distant fingers. The sun at the back of his head. Knowing everything. As a child does. Assumption and ignorance. Fire escapes not saving. Instead Letting them in.

Knowing nothing. As anyone must. The years encrypting all those lessons.

Going back. Because I can. Touch the time machine. Memory the catalyst. It's easy to find what I had wanted after the fact. Diminished patterns. Mathematics of lust. Prove to zero again.

What I wanted never attempted. What I needed only took the numbers as they stood. Divisions. Deep equators in the body. Where the hemispheres bisect. Formulas. The profound absolute that is the solution.

All valid equations.

Useless.

When attempting to count backward.

Some blind judge called then sorting all my epiphanies into the shapes of men. Smaller than I can fit inside.

Anything they haven't taught I've still managed to learn from them.

People. Lopsided mirrors. Flushing toilets. Overflowing with so much shit.

We protest the numbers, but are powerless.

I count the minutes out loud. As if someone can determine what's missing.

Carve the hole. Deep enough. A renaissance of touch. In practical liaisons. Remember. Forget. I don't care who you are after we're over. It's only circumstance. The dollhouse Trying so hard to look like the real thing.

I don't care who I was then. Or who I'll be after. I am. Now. Whatever this might be. Candy house in the woods. Falling down. The abandoned misled by the sweet.

Blood like umbrellas. When it's not raining Men like elevators. Navigating skyscrapers of skin. I lose them, in the afterward. The pale telepathy of the testosterone. Wanting so much. And so little.

Every thing's the same.

Nothing is.

Find the hole. Lie to it.