clay roads find her. absent excuses. the cold like fingers. touches gently at first. quuckly grabs hold. the hours forget us. mud on their shoes. vague footprints in the journey of the wind.

liars. these scars that pretend to know. the difference. that there is one. between victim and villain.

she has her puppets. made of smoke rather than felt. she has her stages. all dark. alive only with the echoes. of deafeated gods and hopeless devils.

time stubbornn. raging ambient pulse. thundering in the deaf ears of the defeated and the hopeless.

her tits are crayon nubs. bleeding color into the outlines of strangers. there are no pictures. nothing real. only hours. arrogant like hares. humbled by the tortoise.

alone in their race. lost. in their small definition of winning.

there are no truths. except those which came before. the gravity of this trench. the distance. that spoils flesh to solve itself. a series of numbers. stiff with the attraction. between. ledge and impact. a conversation far too brief.

the stilts of science betray her. heaven is not near enough at all. the stars conspire to their surrender. long dead before she can see. demons are so much more forgiving than angels are.

choices like needles. bursting with salvation. a wealth of numbness. gods in every corner. devils in each doorway. the paradox of flesh. counting pieces of glass with fingers made of stone.

Touch is a treason. In a war of the absurd. Her eyes like wounded soldiers. Her smile like grenades. We wear each other in sparse threads of skin. Toiling to undo the knots that keep us together.

her lips are summer. her face is winter. the seasons change us. but on them we have little effect.

i draw my boxes. the stale geometry of if. stumbles. caught in life's moist cement.

he listens to her breathe. inspired by the prescient cadence of her sleeplessness. ledges like gods. loud and arrogant. lovers like zippers. coming undone. teeth biting everywhere. there is an opening.

her monsters are small. easily swept up in her fury. the flames from dragon's jaws. Tentative. As they wait for that burst of water. The strangle of contrition that proves the darkness.

she tastes him. in furtive licks. stolen from the fist of ogres. she feels him in the pull of years. as the world pretends to discover its villains.

she closes her eyes. confesses. that it's too far away.

she grabs the zipper. And pulls down hard. disappointed when. they can still see her.

all of her poisons too weak.

treble flames. point their dominoes. away from the sun. the pitch of gravity reveals. the parasite of confession. eager needles. punch the wind. their poison the only reason to keep climbing.

yellow like truth. sticky and sour with blame. blue like love. soft and foul. the porch door trembles. the glass in the windows shudders. laugh. let me fall. let me stumble and be of their ridicule. I am content to be laughed at by idiots and loved by madmen.

her stories tell her. child climbing ladders just shy of heaven. unaware that she's always been high enough.

skin like cataracts. adds to the blur. little piglets. brick houses. ripe to fall down. the words spill from her fingers. in a thunder of conditions. desert and cloud. like symphonies in her head. crack and multiply. until everything is red.

the nightmare befriends her. in small steps and fractures of bricks. the wolf breathes. in his quiet oppression. empowered with the sickness.

the creaking lantern. the faltering wind. the backdoor. the thin glass between lovers. That lets me see what they really want.

the sequence. the surrender. torn invitations. as her party goes on. without strangers. without friends. dense with the science of men. heavy with the friction of surrender.

as red as her choices. as blue as the voids they've left her with. her broken toys play with her. long after the bulbs are dead.

and the monsters we let live us. are all that they'll remember.

prepare the wolf. soft swords. like fading memory. quiet floods. in the ripe of her arms. the beautiful girl. the ugly truth.

tell the story. in pink cheeks. and doubting arms. the whisper of right against the roar of wrong.

the shrug of the apple. more thread than needle. as it mends those holes.

let the monster inside. play the martyr. to wasted saviors. pressing the absolute. soft buttons. slender threads. work their way through the doll. in stiff smiles and frozen tears.

loud liars. befriend the battle. soft soldiers adjust the war. until everything is sober.

bad dogs. chewing on the bones we've left. stray gods dance on the strings of puppets.

Loose threads. for the monsters to pull on.

numbers. thumbs. chimps.

the eye unfolding like an uncertain bridge. steps too close. edges scraping.

the light coughed. the dark chose. each one dying of the same disease. in different poses.

she drew him. smudges and pencil scars. paper swords. left in empty stones. to draw upon. in nervous floods of ink. the grin of distant stars. hungry ghosts. to color in blank faces. and try on fallowed skins. dead leaves. a mosaic of faces. reap. the hollow.

the pantomime continues. a whisper of madness. small comfort against the roar of mediocrity.

blunt gods. without their guns. waste their munitions. on similar corpses. fallen leaves. soften the edges of broken glass.

listening. deaf hours. blind years. still find us. wanting.

she outgrew the math. like neanderthal. climbing laborious ladders. up to locked windows. down to empty cellars. the drudgery of numbers her only tether. as the world became helium. the pale gravity of men. weaker than she thought. as it all disappeared into the shrug of an indifferent atmosphere.

space.

making us large. feverish children sucking on the splinters of popsicle sticks.

space.

proving us small. in quiet confessions. scrapes of flesh. too lean to wear. thin crutches. bland surrenders. brighter than all this darkness.

the lion. his fangs on the sun. biting down. pretending he's not hungry.

time in pale reversals. games of checkers. spoil the board. as her king dances against the check. a stubborn devil on the perimeter of perdition. repairing the apple that was bitten. with the bones of orphans.

time wakes her up. ignites that soft inferno. boiling in her fist. she pets the wolf with one hand and cuts it open with the other.

the fairy tale becomes her. breadcrumbs in the forest. stale enough to follow.

the mechanics of men. uglier than she had anticipated.

time machines. like warm thighs and cold lips. hum on the thick of their gears. the world spins. a manic pinwheel ferreting breath from the tight choke of the wind. its tender noose spinning life from so many corpses.

the sidewalk painted pink. she's too old to know the difference. except that it's harder now. to sleep. to pretend the day is over and life has happened. that the dream is enough.

counting. the stoic arithmetic of cold sheets. names the bean stalk. as her jack descends. and the giant crashes. her beans still useless. time machines. like dull knives. on the thick skin of epiphany. she wonders. which came first. life or death. what makes them different.

This heavy marker in her hand. that blots out the ladder up. this broken pencil between her fingers. that stabs. at the treasures that were almost drawn.

this time machine with its plastic stare. waiting for her answer.

the world is always ending. on its toes. hungry. peering in at. the opulent feasts. of the powerful and the powerless. they are the same. always wanting. bluffing that they have.

sweet panties. dealt like cards. a steep ante to sit in on worthless hands.

waiting comes in bald exceptions. the dull blade gnawing on raw meat. the hunter kills, but refuses to prepare. the dead things to be consumed.

bitter candies melting in her hands. sweet enough to slow the clock. paint her palms in sour chocolate. a flood of intensity ripe with the wretch of imminent paradox. the thunder of patience. the stumble of weakness. pushpins in paper maps. stabbing at places unwilling to be found.

the fever on stilts. high above the disease. as if they are separate. the poison in small doses. bleeds a cure. and she bathes in the blood.

Pause. Hold your breath. See if anything changes.

Jagged pencils. Point. Draw. Confess. That it's not enough.

She lends her face to an eager stranger. Wagering against his resolve. She plays her game of hopscotch with the obvious numbers. And unexpected stones. Winning a cold component to her plan.

To be.

Her life in shallow cuts. Little blood. For many wounds. The rabbit runs. Chasing its missing foot. Frantic to win a race that scarcely knows it's in it.

She listens to the monkey. As he confesses evolution. Every bone a treason. As she works her way inside the skeleton. To find the knot in the needle. that keeps her from coming undone.

Each hour a prism. Bent fingers. Pointing at. Brightly colored villains. Broken fists. Trying to hold onto. Fading rainbows.

The math overtakes her. And she struggles with the remainder.

the end doesn't come. it only finally wakes up. After a long debate with a lazy coma.

the words aren't mine. I only borrow them. from opiates and unprotected sex.

bluffing the seldom cartographers. that leverage their maps against the contingencies of dead skin. destinations far more resilient than the travellers that take their paths. or otherwise more willing to embrace the inherent weakness. of wanting. to change.

she scribbles. stabs of ink. open wounds. she had assumed were healed.

the liar. she is. was. must be. shouts. colors. conditions. cold beds. missing blankets. smothers. under the reflex of choice. that we can wait. so long. for what is never coming.

the ripe apple. in her grip. bruised. bitten. soured. by those that have tasted. the scrape of its gravity.

the weight of the earth rapidly approaching.

the science of salvation. feeble with the parameters of decision.

the fall is nothing. compared to what comes after.

slight hurricane. pisses its puddles in our path. distance. in fevers. velocity in the depth of my sickness. the simple science of temptation. reveals its mazes. torn dolls. gather their bitten smiles. and their frayed faces. the quiet tick of clocks. at last discovering this scarred flesh.

arrogant metaphors. spoil her desperate pantomime. clowns drenched in the perfumed blood of martyrs. salient garden debating the sun. for a taste of the colors still too far.

the simple ropes. tossed stone. listless games. the smother. the allegory of waiting. tricks us. into thinking we are close. the bandage. thick with scabbing blood. tells time in pennies. but purchases it in dollars.

shouting at gods she knows are deaf.

decisions. like hydrogen atoms. choices are unstable. proximity suggests patience. experience has different data.

she moves. at the speed of her temptations. velocity is manipulated by mass. distance is distorted by the scale. measurement is merely the folly of comparing. Something small against that which is larger.

she breathes. in quiet fists. desperate punches that leave no bruises. hungry skin that chases. the brittle ghosts cast by broken corners. quiver. below the growing shadows of falling giants.

snatch the bullet from the cusp of her sleep. she tumbles. roiling in deference to the suspicion. that none of it is real. a lie to near to the truth. a plague. more than welcome.

the cold mercy of madness on missing sin. the calm conviction of broken scabs.

a drop of blood. a fraction of when. anything mattered.

kill the windows. tear away the curtains. condemn the glass. reason with the monsters. that the suicide is a work in progress.

yellow windows surround her. naked. hurried. without anchor. adrift.

her world is flat. not spherical in the least. and she is always close to the edge.

gravity bickers with logic. if the world ends does it still apply. can she fall off. or will she just float. suspended there. in the timeless yawn of naught.

skin poses as years and begins to ask questions.

starts to count. the dirty tiles on the bathroom floor. as the hours vomit. high on the mechanics of how. weakness spills into salvation.

blue walls make a room. gentle. shivering. without a constant. the world is flat. and small. and shrinking fast.

i wake up inside her. the years a drought. the moment a flood. deformed by her faces. drowning in her masks.

small cuts build a roof. but the rain still finds its way in.

awake. delicious monster. listening to the night snore. sweating asterisks.

\solved\

laugh. stale villain. dancing to the weep of darkness. trembling parenthesis.

/paused/

speak. raw child. learning to walk. on the rippling breath of circumstance. kicking commas.

fractions of god. perspire between her legs.

( red )

sleep. spoiled outcast. on the husk of memory. taken by choices. in a frenzy of question marks.

the scowl of contrition. broken worlds blossoming under her tongue. dense like the angles on a square. broad as the math that determines. how far I've wandered.

look. find them. filthy mirrors. that swallow the day. rusting scales. that weigh what is missing.

simple pin pricks. dull needles. knotted threads. pull on the holes. not trying to close them. but only attempting to make them smaller.

she is.

you were. remember.

the victim. the villain. the voice. the observer. watching the world sleep. a fortunate case of insomnia.

tunnels. ripe with the ritual. of pretending to change. passageways. take us in circles. chokes of skin. elaborate the dearth of her choices. the monkey scribbles in its book.

a bland surprise. another eclipse. the stumble. of hours. years. lifetimes. groping for a path. searching strangers. pissing on maps. resentful that there is no treasure.

the monkey draws his pictures. in ink. overwhelmed by the depth of his despair.

the Earth moves. sprints beneath us. taking us away from ourselves. in filthy fractions. time passes. dull teeth chewing on the crust. of stale bread. and we are hungry enough to believe it tastes good.

the monkey watches. his pen empty. his books read. wondering. how to differentiate between villain and victim.

he dances. caught in a redundant pantomime. the careless lurch of time. as it sucks the marrow from her bones.

the monkey paints. fingers swollen with color. trembling pictures. the monkey measures. quietly confronted. in scabs. how far we've travelled. to be forgotten.