We dig. Always searching for the bottom. Tunneling below having found nothing on the surface.

Weak tunnels choked in thick walls. Her fingers tearing the fruit from its skin. It's almost murder. The way she devours. Choices.

Shovel scraping. The ground beneath. A defeated song. Trying to reason with the darkness.

Her hours patient. As she paints the mountains. Colors they would never dare to be. Her years betray her. In the throttle of skin. The torque of her machine getting away from her.

Her paper faces all falling apart. Under the threat of rain.

the world ends in weak chokes. as it began. infantile and helpless. hungry for a milk that's soured. flirting with the ink. as the veins stumble into the abyss. confident in the futility of the flame.

she wakes up small. little pins stuck in great big cushions. missing bones turning the years to mud. a thick soup of skin. constantly simmering, but always cold. all of her monsters old friends.

She counts the snowflakes. as the sky vomits white. she strains to dig her tunnel out. as the world begins to end. heavy shovels scrape the ground. numb fingers grab at the wind.

White she tells him is not a color. But rather a convergence. All of them. The moments arrive in various spectacles and we are buried under their messes.

The years don't know. What we do. That they die as we live. Corpses committed to memory. The chasms of this foul flesh their only afterlife. That's why there are ghosts.

Because thinning skin and failing livers are hardly heaven. Even our mistakes deserve better.

That's why we pretend such machines can be built. To save us from ourselves.

It's not a color. It's all of them. And the whiter it gets the more I see. The black below.

It's something so simple. I've only just now learned. We've never had time. It has always owned us.

the small cuts on her fingers tell the stories she never intended. Faint drops of blood. a light snow fall that quickly becomes a blizzard. it was only yesterday that her skin burned under the scowl of the sun. And now she is cold again. a hostile landscape of liars and friends. the differences between them too far away to detect.

she can see in the darkness. when she stops looking. she can climb the stairs. believing the attic is empty. though the heavy boxes would debate.

the lamp stays on. long after she's left the place. the alarm clocks keep screeching. long after she's forgotten. what's up there.

wilting sermons on the vanity of touch. long debates with the walls about the absence of windows.

the tiny cuts. those are the ones we remember. the big ones. mercifully allow us to forget.

she shouts at the scarecrow. fearing it is dead. paper cuts all that's left to measure. how far we've come.

time seeps. blood through bandages. time heals. skin to scabs. the math gets away from me. but it always comes back the same. idling engines. negotiating space. squealing pigs. in the shadow of the butcher's ax. swallowed up by something. laughing as it chokes on us.

the torches. as the forest eclipses. hollow skins. empty dresses. time sneaks inside. speckles of light in the bellowing darkness. matches. burnt down to the end.

time in skipping stones and lazy fables. the stories of the water breaking. and the memories that turn it red.

the paper bends to the will of the stone. Rocks and sticks. breaking bones. and glass. slender pins. in the veins of gods. delivering ample doses.

the sick spill their cures from every opening. the mad sell their wisdom in empty boxes. small cuts. are enough to define the dolls. an array of misery knitted together by the angle of the rip.

holes in everything. margins slip away. as the end emerges. in flickering bulbs. and dull scissors.

paper caught in the sun. burdened with the choice. of what's worth saving.

the snow pretends to fall. heavy shadows. there, but overlooked. the ocean pretends to pause. the waves and the sand discussing. how wrecked the castles are.

I had tomorrow, but I gave it up. wrinkled in the paper losing track of the villains. and the heroes. maps drawn on sore skin. to treasures unclaimed. years carved into bitter bones. revealing at last. their ageless portraits.

I had tomorrow, but today arrived before it. weak and sweaty and wanting a reason to go on.

the bones pretend this jello around them is not superfluous. the minute tragedies of want. multiplying like flickering fluorescents. growing weaker the longer they stay on.

the light wanders. desperate for when. there was more than darkness.

little pigs flaunting their straw houses. unaware of the wolf approaching. the arrogance of flesh has written so many fables.

to warn us. that the dead have no faces, except the ones that we give to them. to apologize for how dark it gets. even with our eyes open. the boogeymen hiding under our beds. are real. different guises. same monsters.

her house blows down and she is faced with villain. the abstract concept of evil. it's baseless origins. we are travellers. wrong turns and all. we are gods building our heavens. from scars and missing skin. we are gods all of us. manipulating the math. as dormant hells begin to clutch at the surface.

Triggers of redemption hungry for the bullet. the empty dress. I used to wear. boasting the moment that was almost ours.

the wise bird in its bed. sleeps next to no one. sorting the years into portions of when. time still knew our faces. the broken bridges we must cross. because there is no other way.

the old man inside the child. has paintings to sell. the junkie on the corner. has clarity to offer.

these old maps. boast of places to be.

these nervous ghosts keep to the attic. hoping not to be seen.

but even in my deafness I still hear them.

she draws on the pavement. crude embellishments of the years. stick figures. people will interpret to their own interests. nurturing small ghettos in the crevices of her thoughts. futile revolutions. taking hostages they cannot keep.

the end was always there.

we only pretended we could negotiate. the distances between when and if. or that the world would recognize the difference.

she answers her own questions. in gassy stutters. and apathetic smirks. it has already happened. and will again.

the end was always there. i just found it first.

now you say. is how. as if broken rudders can steer us. closer to that maddening breach. now you say. as if there was ever anything else. beside this pale eruption. eyes and skin. searching for. finding. the moment. they were whole.

dull knives. scraping. loose skin. as if there is something below.

the current travels. without contrition. to blood to bone and far beneath it. the cuts in the paper arranging their shadows. to align with the abysss.

something so far. like the weep of numbers as my math comes undone. something close. like the shock of how lost we are. amongst the wolves.

left listening . to the squeal of the pig.

a choice. heavy bricks flatten the wheels on the wagon. a choice. a small box. surrounded. by so many others like it. the road continues. as roads must do. leaving us behind. To watch the blood seep through the bandages.

the wounds are easy. healing comes in nervous huffs. threads of skin ignoring the stitches they've dropped. there are storms. i see them coming. but have no way to stop. the ogres in these fairy tales from coming back to life.

writing in ink. negotiating with the permanence. dull scissors. tearing the dolls as the chain is opened.

the small monsters. those are the ones to worry about. even the tiny lies they tell are bigger than us.

little hens. sitting on their eggs. as the sky falls down around them. and in between we tell our stories. the villain of math. the myth of time. pulling that magnet. closer.

the clouds are too low. and the her dress is soiled. with the answers to questions she's has not asked. her thighs a kaleidoscope. shifting and turning. in a million colors of when. it had to hurt. the real still gasping for air inside the burgeoning vacuum.

her meal in numbers. her promise in years. yet to come or already passed still to be determined. her eyes closed. a blind machine barrelling through so much hunger.

her paper dolls on the table. eager cards in a long standing bluff. her wagers all in skin. and numbers. her scissors prepared to cut.

her meat lost in the journey. her bones owed to the destination. the sum of her choices still uncertain.

turns the sun. hard shoulder to the wind. in wispy confections of humility. in orgasms of when. the strays will feed again. on the casual remains. of second chances.

there is smothering. the fire yearns to die. hollow fables recite the stories. spark in the blood. that burned down everything inside.

the compass deciding. where she's headed. will leave behind. the buzz of dying fluorescents digging out an uneven path. places where monsters know. the patterns on little girls underwear. hours that count backward. searching for that moment. when everything changes.

skin like canvas. eyes like finger paints. the colors blossom. the soil still clinging to their petals. the merry-go-round keeps spinning. though the carnival has stopped. the weight of nothing drags her down.

the lisp of gravity makes her laugh. as she listens for its confession. certain of its guilt.

the jury is now. the evidence is when. and i have only rumors of treason to support my innocence.

in a dark room. the light just outside her door. she frets over the drops of rain that hit. failing to understand the glass. to look. never to feel. the storm. its callous rage. or the sun. its selfless warmth.

to watch. in ripples of the cough. the disease heaving from her body in urgent stabs. to die. exactly as she has lived. worshipping in the subtle sicknesses that she's been taught.

the arrogance of fairy tales leave her cold. too many victims.

the creases of the revelations firmly pressed into her dress. as she tries to remember their names. all those worlds she visited. but could not stay.

in a dark room. the light just outside her door. she places her wager on the tortoise. but roots for the hare.

nervous scales. imagine the weight. of strangers. liars. and friends. the color of the ink. as it seeps through. in the failed equations of loose skins. she tries on the bones. but they poke through. holes that let the thieves in. nothing to steal. so much to take. empty boxes. still with the name tags attached. echoing flesh. limping on skeleton crutches.

the open zippers. little nicks in time. letting the numbers invade. explosive fractions of atoms tracing the outline. as her shadow crouches to pick up.

the pieces she's dropped.

small epiphanies stretch the skin of that battered drum. changing the rhythm. the locks dance around her ankles. the shadows collapse. deflated ghosts. searching for the stairs. out of their dungeon.

talking to the evil. it listens. too well. too easy to love it. when we're this close.

her lips thick with a kitten's grin. her touch ripe with choices. ultimatums involving swine and condoms. puppets taking over the stage. in a glorious applause. the universe in shallow cuts. pointing out the villains. ignoring the victims.

debating with the first. it all starts with one. and then we begin the math. a contagion of numbers. infecting. determining every moment.

as if we are powerless.

a string. from the earth to the sun. pulling us closer. to that fiery finish.

a stone. in her hand. longing to be thrown. the edges coming into focus. nothing left. to keep me away from them.

trying the numbers like locks. stubborn combinations. steal the warmth. from thinning blankets. confession to puppets stale the happy ending.

convince the numbers. fit the villain into the math. the future. in strips of skin. stolen from the gut. waiting for the movement. the parasite takes a breath. the blood. harvesting the vein. in pitchforks and cradles.

the child. born too often.

it's only time. just a ghost content on haunting empty houses. it's only then. masquerading as the now. little liars clicking their heels. wizards still hanging their curtains. and the pointless names we assign. to all these things we can't explain.

the hours fumbling. with choices. as i languish in how. such things could ever be decided.

the girth of the math choosing. how small we are.

the cold is a foundation. firm and thoughtless. we will build from that. as time starts counting from nothing and never has an end.

a shuffle the beads. the abacus in his forehead groans. the numbers ask. what she is doing. counting. that's all. or trying to do so. in this theoretical prison.

finding the nucleus. knowing that the atom has pieces. like the rest of us. that it can be broken. but not without consequence.

facing the moon. chiding the stars. for dying before they reach us. it's a long story told in whispers and hush. it's a hollow victory. when the strays stop scratching. because she's stopped feeding them.

the window suggests. strange worlds. the bias of truth. the indiscretions of trust. the corner in her mind on which the whores gather. to laugh at her invisible clothes.

the cold is real. everything else is simple arithmetic.

infinity comes closer. brushing on the edge. questioning the montser for motives. it just is. dark when the sun is absent. cold when the winter sets in. long because you've been waiting. hard because the soft is reluctant.

salvaging the algebra. finding the pieces. yellow teeth chewing on the glass. closed circuits identifying the source. naming all her castles after strangers. as the moat rises.

out loud she recites the equation. blood. skin. temptation. voices. no one can hear. places i never knew were there finally finding me. straw walls crimping against the wind.

little children. explaining infinity in missing crayons.

transparent questions solve for why. broken ladders stab the wind. looking for blood that isn't there. she lays the years down. end to end. like empty caskets. digging the appropriate holes as she searches for the dead.

it's not there. but always is. stopped clocks still counting the losses. the rumble of the scar as the healing begins to choke the skin. the chill of the pillow as i venture that first tremble of sleep. it's not there. but it is. the prison is empty, but their cages go with them.

the stumbling earth. limping around the sun. the futility of summer as the winter digs deeper. high enough to see the guillotine. the revolution coming in skipping frames.

yet when i play it back in my mind it's fluid. a perfect madness.

just like love and addiction.

portions. slivers of skin. to fashion these tents. to feed feed the animal when my humanity weakens. we share ourselves with the dark. quivering templates to draw the monsters upon. ravenous beasts lacking claws.

the flesh parts. the red sea opens. the skeleton exposed. our exodus only just begun. the animals circle. they smell the meat. the machine coughs. it's beating heart stumbling on the math.

her eyes chase a shadow. as it sneaks between then and now. the cure comes disguised as the sickness. the vaccine too late for those infected. she traces the numbers with nervous fingers. eagerly chasing their stampede of errors.

blank blackboards speculate our lives. in a pendulum of numbers she cannot count.

be patient. it will find us. it's not the machine you would have it be. it's just like us. weak and lonely. stumbling forward in the churning throat of the dark. wondering when. it will be swallowed up.

short songs we whisper only to ourselves. heavy bricks on our feet. as we wade through the damp. short tunnels. no eyes at the end. no spark to signify our surrender. just silence. arrogant in its leaden crown. the scratch of strays. as we turn off the light over the porch.

be patient. it finds us. always does. not by virtue of the mechanics. but something under the skin. the sheer of the wind. as torn sails turn to face the storm.

quiet songs. she sings under her breath. in the years between life and death. everything is there. nothing is. she dances to the motor as the turbines spin. still pretending to move us.

be patient. time is.

candy houses, she suggests, are a good place to start. you'll find no witches, of course. only the children they never got to eat. and the walls the wolves have built to keep them in.

the beginning is all fireworks and blood. the tremors of anxious skin. stuffing color into these grey boxes. the infection of hope spreading.

the middle is tentative. shaky crutches on shifting earth. eyes on the cusp of the mountain. as the child teases forever in a shudder of falling curtains. between the fragile and the stiff is only what we are. soft and thready shackles unable to keep us tied down.

animals. convinced the stars are watching us. that they have what we want.

the sun rises. she sees the world for what it is. strays in the garbage. chasing the fickle scent of happiness.

the sun sets. she sees. that the world ends every day.

the rattlesnake and the owl debated how old time was. each one more than certain it was old enough to know that they were wrong. it's simple. this empty rain. let it fall. it will either way.

the rat and the pelican watched the waves continually repeating their math. eternally taking away what had never been there. each of them certain they knew why it could not stop. the whisper of the moon deafening the ocean until all it could hear was gone.

i know of division the cloud said. as the earth lazily looked up. i can explain it all. the sun claimed. i am the center. the focus.

the monkey listened to all of them. his finger deep in the ants' hill. you're all wrong. i know why the world spins. how it ends. and what these numbers are.

venom and circumstance creating a science i can comprehend. flesh and disease purchasing shades of tomorrow.

Her eyes fluorescent. gentle and scarcely blue. vibrating on a level that can only be sensed. not disappearing in an incandescent crack, but quietly winding down.

the lizard licking the air. for traces of the bridge. that led him to this dire utopia. so ripe with disobedient heavens.

the fish on the sand. fascinated with its legs. the fish on the sand. slowly. learning how to breathe.

the lights counting us as we spoil our way through these confessions. a pity of touch. perfect numbers. finding the pattern. in the nothing. collecting. sad men. like daggers and needles. the vein. fluorescent. buzzing. with a light too cold. roles. scripts. the drunken parables of bone and blood. creating the shadows. that follow us. assembling the stage. upon which these ghosts will strut.

actors without an audience. lost in their roles.

pretty dresses. stab the bones. stiff curtains. disguising the broken windows. teasing the science. with calcium and obstinance. pointing fingers and fractured wrists. draw the maps. the devil's face on heaven's throne.

little children. tiny faces lost in the tornado. Long zippers. coming undone. at the slightest provocation. impotent monsters. making faces. pressing their noses to the glass.

starving and cold. the winter in all its magnificence. teaching the homeless what they already know. it's cold.

even in pretty dresses. even when the sun is this close. there is still so much darkness.

the meal of rotting bones. the whisper of the cracking glass. as i negotiate the choices.

She was not fortunate enough to have had.

Contraptions. The assembly of chance. As it chokes down the formulas. Switches. In the on. Telling stories bigger than the words. Switches. In the off. Cradling the concept. In a long array of negatives. As the darkness continues to multiply.

Studying the limping dogs she concludes that the random is deliberate. The snuff of subtraction. Measures the absence of the flame.

Stomping through the empty garden. She blames the sky. So many seeds and nothing sprouted. In bursts of skin as bright as they are weighted. In fetching choices she remains. Peeking. Tugging on that dirty bandage.

For a glimpse of the scars that fuel this machine.