in an alternate universe he loved me just as much as i loved him. but not in this one. in another still, i didn't love him at all and his heart was the one that got broken.

in some world out there my time machine works. and i go back and forth. manipulating circumstance to my whims. an infantile demigod. concerned only with the distance between now and if. the years like hookers on short leashes. my machine the drug that spreads their gnarled legs.

in the past i was a girl. sharp and red with momentous changes. that never ceased. i was a girl. the outline of a child stretched across the body of a woman.

now. i am a child still. focused on the cold windows and the barren sheets. deafened by the voracious stutter of time machines. mouthing the words. as i drown in the dogma of skin.

in the future i am a liar.

telling stories about. the child still searching for a crack in the glass.

Her footprints sneak away. under the guise of rain and wind. a series of fading candles and creaking swings. on the outskirts of a cracking dream.

she scribbles faces with the fading ink. Imagining people where only ghosts remain. Her stories crippled by the weight of her want. everything is numbers. all the angles are sharp. she scours her empty attic for the chains. but even found. she can't undo the locks.

everything is small. too small to see. everything is big. too big to see. she moves closer. and notices the center. she moves away and finds the edges. the hours are glass. the minutes are rocks.

Her skin is liquid. Everything gets in. All her colors coming undone. Her bones are lead.

her puzzles and all their arrogant pieces. attempting to assemble what has never been whole.

it's the light that lets the darkness in.

time comes in stutters. a choking diarrhea of loose skin. the cough of then. the humble of now. all of the twigs in her bushel. to be burned by the fire.

the monsters have their dialogues. levels of how. it came to this. the monsters have their theories. on what of our flesh is still ours. lengthy algorithms to say what i already know.

lost is just the beginning. lost is the only way to prove when i've been found.

the curtains are sheer. the window is oblivious. as i listen for the sound. of the years pretending not to count. Everything is gone. everything is there. in broken doorknobs and cracking skins. the fire never went out. i just forgot the flames were there.

the borders conceive. pale Nostradamus's. in the cloaks of petty thieves. the dog lifts its leg. to piss in this place. challenging the humanity of dolls without faces. she takes notes. to remember how. the bridge collapsed. the calm waters suddenly rose up. to devour trusted pathways.

there are multiples. there are instances. where the one become many. the future in needles. the past in threads. altering the skin to fit the bones. the bones to fit the skin.

some masks are rubber and cardboard. others are blood and pride. some masks we wear. others wear us.

plastic fingers begin to grab. the small patches of sanity between then and now.

the dialogue writes itself. the flesh corrects for missing moments. she negotiates with the mountain. she's tried. and has never seen the top. the secret it relents. is that i am always right beside the bottom.

the sound finds its way inside. dull needles dragging through my holes their heavily knotted threads. the words come in pinches. the pauses in punches. everything else is just noise.

the static of oblivion crackles in her head. an army of wet dragons exhaling smoke. it's obvious she insists. this humility of the stone as it breaks the water's tension. a mute suicide. lost amongst so many.

the rumble of time. as its footsteps pound behind. the chase of the shadows as the sun draws higher in the sky. as it prepares to submit us to the darkness. the shudder of the time machine. as it wakes me from this sleep. to tease the world out there. with rumors of my death.

the minutes come on tiptoe. the hours exit in fits.

the doorway grinned and asked her what she thought she'd find inside. and even if she did. what then she would do with it. she smiled and said what is lost wants to be.

the ceiling churned with the stubborn ghosts of torn dresses. and the fairy tales that had deceived. the monsters always win she told him. because monsters are what we are. flicked tails and sharp fangs disguised in a whisper of skin.

the window smiled and asked her. what it was that she saw. as the dark makes its mirrors from us. she glanced. pretending to care. when she looked through it.

i see nothing. everything. a reflection. myself. imagining a world that doesn't exist. i see the glass. that muffles the sound. i see the blood on the ground. as my hand picks up the broken pieces.

i see. the humiliation of choices.

she shifted in her skin. trying to imagine what, if anything, lay underneath. she dug with her dirty fingernails deeper into the darkness. Suspecting all along, that it was the other way around. Simple choices with complex consequences.

shifting the dirt. as the world flew under her feet. an empty playground. full of squeaking swings. and the shadows of the monsters that empty them.

she bickers with the cold. as the lost are given to do. playing back and forth with her king. to bring the checkmate into focus. the torn parachutes. the crumbling candy houses. the vampires in the window. every fairy tale flaunts its villains. in breaking atoms and withering penises.

determined to prove. those breadcrumbs are still there. that there is still somewhere to go.

parodies in flesh. suck the poison's thumb. my beautiful monsters slowly turn ugly again. as the sun punches through the dirty windows I've forgotten to shut. all my ogres once soft are hard now. all those villains once quiet begin to shout.

he doesn't mean to, but he stares at his wrist. imagining the seconds are lifetimes. assuming the end is hidden in the middle.

she's tried on bigger tits. she's worn out all those sexy skins. they always go away. the bones all that are left. of dancing skeletons on knotted strings. and the hollow music that still demands their obedience.

she's argued with wind. it never listens. she's reasoned with the snow. it always falls for as long as it wishes. she's stood under the icicles. As they melted.

She's blamed the window. She's blamed the glass. But she knows the real monsters aren't out there.

names in the sand. startle the wind. her islands rise with the swells. her ships sink in the same instance. the game is obvious. Squares and stones. Pretend to choose us. Scratching the pages with our dead pen in their fist.

She counts the teeth on the zipper. As it comes undone. Animals in their human skins. Dead men waxing on how it was to live.

He climbs to the attic. To check that portrait. He notes the gaps between the stairs. He finds the cracking paint. The shadows gathering in those spaces.

Close enough she insists. I'd rather this parachute not open. I'd prefer to hit the ground as harsh as I left it. a series of pale zippers. trying to remember. what it was that had opened them.

little changes. posture at her hips. like impotent demons. The tips cut from their tails. conversing with the clock. though time does not belong to it. the hours thunder in her ears. battles mutually lost. the minutes pour like rain. the flood is the only right thing amongst all these biting grains of sand.

naming the monsters. because they are hers alone. letting them name her. since she's forgotten who she is. everyone is a stranger. and strangers are the only people that I know.

the stairs pretend. the sky bends down to make me think it's close. it's as beautiful as any lie has ever been. obese with promises doomed to be broken.

sometimes she's deaf. a witch in quicksand on her last spell. sometimes she's blind. feeling in the dark for things so close. Sometimes she's nothing. pulling on the threads of naked ghosts.

the edges all she knows.


*****


this will be my 2,000th post. Not that I was counting.

capsules on the tip of her tongue. tornadoes on the edge of her gaze. in the center of the chaos she is calm. fortified by the tinsel of the mania. as it focuses the light. exposing all the colors it hides from us.

the thick of her pillow heavy under her head. as the random wolves in her veins hunt the sheep inside her head. a crazy game of Cinderella. where the prince is dead. and the godmother is more drug than magic.

he's old now. she is too. or not young anymore. the difference vast. especially as she listens. searching for the silence that has abandoned her. staring. eyes all on the back of her head. back there. behind. that's where everything happens.

everything else is just candy houses and speculation. rapid atoms with nothing to ignite. her playground closes. sand in her eyes and the the creaking chains. of empty places.

she tears off her mask.

to find the muscle underneath. that there is no skin left on her face.

caution signs. were always in black and white. stories were always told. without the benefit of victims. all heroes. as broken as they were. neither weak enough to pity. nor strong enough to admire.

vodka cunts and tequila cocks. a twist of lemon tits. the gravel under her tongue. digging at scars. changing her words as she whispered to them.

a barren playground. the indent. where her feet scraped. as that swing flung her round. cigarette butts and plastic bottles. the colorful confetti of defective fingers. as they grab at. but can't release. the ropes around their necks.

she takes out her eyes and speculates about hte depth of sight. a series of shallow steps. to learn the vanity of blindness.

wait for the desert to admit. its damp sand leads us nowhere. spoil those gods with inferences to failing children. i play the devil. as any actor would. close enough to the skin to be certain of the temptation.

all i see is the Forest. paths missing us. witches heads in the oven. and the freedom that accompanies such arrogance.

a bit of poison. to cure me. a bit of poison. to slowly make me immune. the hours like broken glass. i walk over them. forgetting the blood in my journey. forgetting everything. that still asks where i am.

 The skeleton reaches to touch the remaining flesh. on the desert of her muscle. she says it's alright. That she can see. The bevel of the glass. 

How it distorts. Those beautiful faces. The world tries her on. She doesn't fit. The worm inches through the tree. 

Imagining each leaf is home. Never reaching it. The pebbles under her feet become boulders. The feathers on her back grow heavy. pretending the wings she'll never possess. 

 she shouts. at the angels and the demons. they're both to blame. for this chaos in heaven. she weaves her bricks from straw. to build her house. she warns me. it's irrelevant. how many wolves. or pigs. one is all it takes. 

 Her skin crawls back to her. In bloated patches. Empty and disappointed. That the world was too busy care. She has her attics. to fall back on. sweet candy houses. and burning witches. in a fairy tale of touch. 

she has her lies to tell. magnificent lies. like melting butter. in a hot pan. everything burned by it. she measures the circumference of the devil's penis. by the spaces it leaves between her lips.

Her smile. Vinegar and salt. There's little to know. And too much to learn. She writes to her ghosts in permanent ink. Scratching out the glass. Until everything is dark and clear. Like it used to be. Choices she assumes are wild fires at best. Culling the demons from the pleasure. she blames only touch.

she could cry, but she doesn't. brave as the sun in an eclipse. frantic petitions of skin cause her to stumble. she feels through the darkness. imagining what was once there. tracing the windows with dying pens.

she peels the fruit. hungry for the flesh within. she tells him there is a quantifiable begining and end. but she doesn't have any proof.

she spends her days sorting blades of grass. knowing there is no end. quietly working her questions into the conversation. terrified of the answers.

she waits for the sun to set. for the crickets to tire of their monotonous aria. she wears her wings naked. assuming such would be the case eventually. no matter what. the rogue philosophies of poets and madmen becoming her ambivalent evolution.

the obvious wrinkles in her sagging breasts. compel her to question. the validity of disappearing strong men. scold the ladder. chase the stairs. urgent with huffing flesh. hot balloons caught between bone and skin. engorged with failing moments.

she says over is a certain molecules. a random atom. in the frenzy life effects. she says she's blind. because the lights are out. as if, sight were sufficient evidence.

she puts on her glasses. and wonders if they'll recognize. the girl that can see again.

these awful necessities.

just my opinion. the real reason so many states are losing so much revenue is the insanely high tax on cigarettes. they are forcing people to quit out of sheer necessity. and while they like that the general public believes they are doing this for the benefit of the people, the facts are different.

grandiose politicians in their infinite wisdom are assuming the 'addicts' and 'junkies' will pay anything it might cost for their next hit.

idiots, one and all.

why don't they tax guns and ammo. there's a useless frivolity anyone can do without. it's dangerous. it kills quickly, not slowly. it kills toddlers and babies. it kills everyone equally regardless of whether or not they choose to own a gun.

if someone can show me a citizen's militia that's defending us I'd gladly concede guns are needed. but it seems obvious five branches of the military are more than ample protection. and don't give me terrorism. your rifles didn't stop 9/11.

the real terrorism comes not from outside our borders, but from within.

the poison absolves the sickness. in a stale fracture of quarantine. remove the structure from the broken vial. quench these paper walls. with saliva and blood. and quickly sell the disease. to breathless wolves. and pigs in their fallen straw houses.

i write on her arm. under her skin. in reds and blues. in screams and tears. the same way people look. when you they are still strangers on the street. the same way people look when you've let them touch you.

claws in the mud. dull teeth gnawing the bread. to get to the missing meat. windows. determined to prove. the value of their broken glass. the primer. the multiples of choices. the division of finding each other. though we struggle to keep them whole.

the dialogue repeats eventually. and we are found. straddling all those instances of us. with nowhere to go.

the soft division. of sunlight and rain. as it creases the subtle stages of glass. blind eyes. deaf ears. revealing the smallest cracks.

three eyes pass the crimson. three eyes fracture the tale. Tired fairies pretend to know. what this darkness wants.

an abundance of skin. a series of apologies. as if this storm can be debated. convinced by phantoms. reasoned with by shit. that it's over. that this tired time machine is finally broken. and i'm here. for better or worse. I'm here. even if no one notices.

I'm lost even with these directions.

some places don't want to be found. I'm lost though the map is in my hand. the treasure. it comes and goes. the destination. it's there in the crease of urgent flesh. but it's betrayed me before.

my time machines. in great abudance. the breath of skeptics fortify my lungs. such is the nature of fairy tales. and villains. they make it easy to believe. in the impossible.

and to trust that the impossible still believes in you.

it's just sound. precariously arranged. to convince us that we can hear words no one is saying. pissing gods. we wait for the flush. as they strain to shit. on us.

the atom in its little pillbox of a molecule. as powerless as it is powerful. the nature of the chain. Connecting. Proving weakness. Hungry foxes. Have found the chicken coop. A deaf ear knows better than anyone. The potency of silence. The color of the words.

as they tumble off into forever. like a long series of suicides.

even the dead have choices.

i wait for the thunder. weak storms. flaunt their noise. the inherent weakness. shared by clouds and touch. myopic time machines. ply their subtiies with a passive grace. the distance between tragedy and euphoria is measured in blinks. and the words i've yet to speak.

she tears the moat from the castle. in a fury of conundrums. she rides the lightning bolt. as heaven approaches. it's sagging bridges tempting her to cross. if it ends she knows not where. if it began. that's for the future to decide. this skin. a product. of too many long equations. i'll never solve.

i spend my nights pretending to recognize the numbers. as they construct their pathways. tracing the angels that i find on the heads of pins. each hour a fraction in the mythical continuum of that machines we imagine could move us.

the rain falls. the sun quickly forgets. how we saw. the things that were there. when the darkness was paused.

i'll take my stumble. i prefer to fall.

Given these choices.