we are where the river ends. flowing vigorously into the void. we are the laughter. gods as they choke on dirty jokes. the pinch in their chest as they double over. insect bites to be scratched until they hurt.

if i cannot climb it must be the fault of the ladder. if i cannot see it must be that the lamp is defective.

the monkeys play in the garden. pitching their shit like fastballs at bunting gods. sacrifice. the desperate tactic of a charmless con.

chasing truth. that saturated tampon she hides between her legs.

i add. and subtract. as all numbers are wont to do. the calamity of flesh. as it bruises the math. deep indents. the years are fly paper. all the dying things stuck there. broken mirrors. vapid with so many reflections.

the simple gods of simple people. sandpaper rubbing against. the illusion of skin. the ample gods of liars and poets. pressing the itch deeper.

I could've worn them had I tried. this bellowing purgatory. simmers and boils like a nervous infection. the eager beast scribbles on the glass. worlds much smaller than I recall.

in stiff puzzle pieces. the picture is drawn. in loud storms. the thunder shouts. trying to drown out the whispers.

chase. devour. decide. on the limits of deception is where the freedom lies. clown. villain. cast. healing bones tell the story. frog. lantern. flame. the match in her hand. a dubious drug. a waterfall of whens.

the demons work their division. cutting backward from the past. dead saxophones. prying life from empty lungs. Bits of music. lingering on the many tombstones.

pebbles for boulders. puddles for oceans. everything is small when i look at it this close.

the world slips away in fishnet stockings and satin bustiers.

life is a series of prime numbers. and many zeroes.

a choice of touch torments. flesh is a constant treason. alone solves for the missing. unseen variables. molecular equations. the fly that watches. the butterfly that's to blame for the tornado.

subsisting on the droll dialogue of monsters. knotted shoestrings dance against nervous thumbs. space. that indefatigable gap between us. clears its throat in a repetitious display of dominance. empty baskets dropped in the woods. waiting for the predators to pick up on the scent.

she has her answer. in the stoic resolve of the numbers. the callous parade of the hours as each before expires into the next. each minute a cliff. surrendering the last to its edge.

yesterday arrives in a bustle of how. bits of the future in the scars on the past. skin like Velcro. tearing away in loud, easy tugs.

the truth is both a poison and a cure. it only depends on how you take it.

she sees blood on the stairs. but no footprints.

the coin lands in her palm. emphatic variables. resilient with confession. the clown without its nose. just a man. in too much makeup. a red frown on the eclipse of a tear. the barter of condition. a simple treaty. when the war overwhelms.

piano keys barely pressed. a quiet song. in a maze of monkeys too confident in their own evolution. pale buttons on a thread of locks. the animals comforts. the mystery pretends. there is something more.

the empty pocket. coins falling out. the little gods swamped with huge confessions. still content in the crowns. failing seams. sewn into hungry minutes. knots behind the needle. wear their missions.

the boulder finally confesses. that gravity is weak.

the knots are soft. the window is open. we fall because we want to prove. how distant the bottom is.

gravity beguiles with the
distance yet to fall as
bone scrapes against
skin stretched across the
space between and
time convinced

time turns her corners
gravity folds its ink
space is the hero
distance is enemy
skin wears it out
bone makes it fit

bone wears the shroud
time slowly unzips
skin still remembers what
gravity would try to erase
distance is not the measure
space is not the why

space separates
bone holds us hard
distance finds the bridge
time would construct
gravity is weak
skin makes us strong

skin makes us weak
space plays the abacus
gravity wears the math
bone is divided between
time when and the
distance to how

distance wears her vaguely in
skin of a shade too soft,
time makes its cuts in the
space we've left between
bone's humility and
gravity's arrogance

distance space bone
too far
time gravity skin
too close

terminals in the void. execute the paradox. the breadcrumbs deciding how long we are to remain lost. we go back too far. altering the outcome. distorting the journey that led us this far. never having been anywhere at all.

circumstance punctuates the darkness. the liberal equity of when. pushes against gravity. until nothing is capable of falling.

she lays in her chamber. a pawn with aspirations of queen. she hates the board. the alternating colors of the squares. how much they resemble love. how easily they disregard the alternatives.

the ticking clock and the wilting tree perform their dance. distance like maggots. is hungry for corpses.

what if it was and can't ever be again. what if i missed it being too busy waiting for it to happen.

the scratch of the fox as it hides in its den. the wheeze of forever as it finds its footing. nervous children carrying heavy buckets full of nothing.

soft stones pelt the curtain. trajectories misused. her play rambles on. in dwarfed dialogues. and faceless actors.

the audience wants to applaud, but can't determine when it's appropriate.

the chaos of choice. little lambs on the backs of wolves. dull crayons. in the fists of blind children. the picture never tells.

it's simple division. long skirts and loose blouses lost in the woman.

a thief. a poet. how they differ is unknown. yet how they are alike needs no explanation.

perfect poisons are too easy to come by. this dying only gets in the way.

cautions arm their swelled resolve. libretto diversions pace the syrup of plot and moral. hours to minutes softly fold. years to touch commit to measure. empty portals. unstable passages. the beguiling temptations of trust. whose buxom utopias perpetuate the lost.

she holds her glass. the sharp between each finger severe. as she tightens her grip to hold onto each jagged shard.

spoiled by clarity. Bedevilled by the facts. time exhales. this life the breath that barely tickles its lips. Hardly there at all, but for a few stray coughs.

an impotent virus. drowning in the blood of bigger monsters.

the poison makes her strong. in small doses. her immunity decides. which. monsters to blame.

quiet confessions. in labors of skin. dimes lost in the head of the screw. trying to move the massive world that surrounds them.

the hanger. the thrust of the insect. invading. god comes in choices. failing breadcrumbs. the forest. the faun. the concussion. stay awake. pretend dying isn't everything.

debating. the breadth of her imaginations. small gods on the nib of the pen. drowning in the ink. the window. the rape of the glass. as the sun slithers inside. her private places.

turning confession into mazes.

impatient oceans. swell. determined to prove. the geometry of flesh. the shape of when. it all became so obvious. that she had to start lying again.

the flood ensues. the animals build their arks from the scraps of her dress. she's altered it so many times. but still it doesn't fit.

the fountain. the penny caught in the wish. sinking.

the years pry deep into her skin. a crowbar digging against a lifetime of broken zippers. she calls for the clown, but the circus has moved on. she eyes the trapeze. remebering fondly how it feels to be caught.

forgiveness. the small bargains that we strike with big monsters. time. the series of eyes watch us as we lose our sight.

with nothing to hate. with no one to blame. she tired of the end. soft ribbons teased the edges as her boxes came undone. nothing inside of them.

little birds on tiny branches. weary wings tease the wind. they've travelled so far. to find nothing is different.

each hour stalks. soft boots in wet cement. the blood dries. the hole closes. still flesh insists. every choice is permanent.

Taste the tear. When in strips. Gauze and blood the mortar in. Crumbling walls. Pet the lion. Fingers risked. To feel the roar. negotiate the stage. the dichotomy of the act belies the simplicity of the storm.

just rage. nothing more. the bellow of bloated clouds. as they choke on the calm. pale orphans caught in time's alarm.

sleep. like an aggressive lover. tears the world away. in fits and sobs. the pebbles dance under our feet. a new path drawn in the dust.

the buzzard on her back. tells its jokes to the dead. picking. cleaning the carcass. until time is all that's left.

a permanent drug. a fragile bridge. spanning flesh and decision. a gluttony of gravity. pulling on stray threads.

chasing the slither of futures without footprints. the rabbit. the hat. the symbiosis of illusion. in soft crayons. on hard paper. her magician flaunts his cape. waves his empty wand.

and we are undone.

there's poker in the skin. there's science in the heart. we gamble on the first. Depend on the last. curious victims. brittle fists. blame the sand. for being too small. that it escapes their grip.

choking on the hours. as they stomp down her throat. brass. and cymbals. and drums. a din of years. interrupts her coma.

as he is undone. choking on the grey where once there were colors.

the often. fragile threads attempting to mend. the seldom. the weep of burgeoning holes. that found us close enough. to know what we'd missed.

so many years untanngling the corpses. only to find the knots still intact. and the dead still daed.

light whispers secrets as it navigates the shadows. the door presses on the void. straining to open against the pull of naught. she tries on her glances. one at a time. in bits of glitter and gravity. a broken spider's web tickled by a struggling gnat.

a hole in the wall. an eye behind the felt. puppets on the edge of their sticks. mouths open. no words to fill them.

just the glare. as the eclipse reaches its apex. and she sees again. the din of colors. as the moments manifest.

the crack. the sliver of skin. between choice and decision. the weight of refraction. distorting the glass. as she begins.

picking up the pieces.

patterns resolve to the expected. nooses cinch on gravity's yell. atoms dance. as if the world is ending. because it always is.

she tugs on the drawstring. the timeline yields. she nestles in the folds and pleats. an orphan with mothers too many.

the world yawns. fire and tornadoes. the moment screams. only sparks and breezes. dwarfed by the notion that her breadcrumbs have been eaten.

a tarnished path. a stray picnic of need. all the nourishment sours in the sun. but we continue to eat.

sick with reasons to justify the disease. poison apples ripe with gravity.

the ghosts work themselves out. but the people tend to linger.

wear the bruises. in an avalanche of how. close we came to the apex. pull on the zipper. knowing it won't come undone. crumbling stairs. humbled by the threat of touch.

flaunt the hole. patterns in the void. broken teeth. and wagging tongues. negotiating with all the liars she still trusts. calm executions. where the dead do not resist.

her cunt like finger paints. smudging over the pleasant abyss. her ears syringes. potent with the drugs. that pretend to the bottom is not so distant.

the fire quakes. brilliant with things that do not belong. the mountain shrinks. when at last she measures herself against it.

If I were still a child. If I had become a woman. If there was a difference at all.