it's nothing. sweet apples discard their skins. to try teeth and lips on for size. the stem looks for the center.

distance offers measure, but always runs too far ahead. she wears her eyes upside down. because that is the nature of progress. something coming closer. even if it's only the end.

gravity scrapes at her shins. trying to hold on. she drifts. gradually. Time scratches. Life claws. but there's nothing left inside her. she's weightless.

it's everything. tart melons fuss with the locks on heaven's chamber. while those inside devour the meat the Earth has accumulated.

hours pretend focus as the minutes degrade into years. the frantic math of bone pierces her skin. in broken kites and bleeding nipples the numbers solve her. like the petals torn from a flower.

She dreams in flesh. Nightmares of meat. Like impotent dictators. Each revolution an artist. To interpret. The distance is not far, but the journey is.

parallels. a feast of soldiers. in a war of souvenirs. distracted by the nothing that carves the world from this thunder. storms loud enough to envy. as they tremble so close to the sun. the blunt whisper of choice. dampens the shadowy areas of her dress. she presses the storm to her forehead and listens for the silence to confront her.

the chase leaves her limbs hot with sweat and blood. this long pretense of when finally cracks. abandoning the hunger in pursuit of the taste. Eager stingers on the shoulder of the wind. heavy with the poison

the universe on its hind quarters. the moment drenches in conditions. every breath a single candle against a relentless darkness.

the monsters have their reasons. the men their brute charms. but a woman is neither Satan nor God. just something equally as sinister.

What is lost will find us.

she wallows in the frailty of the corpse. a stubborn algebra of meat and bone. try on each pause. as she would a beautiful gown. all too aware of the arrogance of circumstance.

the obvious predators poison her sleep. close enough to death that all these weapons are useless.

down to the zipper. surrendered to the ink. all the weak monsters that animate our decisions. the scrapes and howls that do the foul arithmetic. that leaves us alone again.

the purchase of penance cheap, but rare. supply and demand not withstanding. the violence of now. nervous with blood and bruises.

time chases her. as she pursues it. layers. like stuttering fountains. the certain crease of flesh. as it awakens to the void. her fingers. a pale treasure map. Scraping the soil. For suggestions of proximity.

broad leaves on thin branches. capture the sun. empty corridors steal the hunt. in swift arrows too sharp for the numbers. in cold drum beats. louder than her deafness can ignore.

the lie of survival. the crumble of skin. as if approaches the thief.

all of her choices tumble forward. confident fractions and nervous decimals. the darkness strokes her lips. the moonbeams braid her hair. the small wars in her head erupt. Consuming other locations.

the clowns hurry. thick blankets of flesh still alive in their arms. the nervous math of strangers. presses the sun to remember. blinds us.

a barren circus. stiff with hungry lions. quietly roars.

indebted to the violence she waits. for the world to forgive her.

Small choices. skin like spiders.

shallow cuts betray. the very nature of intimacy.

the world must end the same way this does. in a frenzy of impotent decisions.

foul with taste of want.

the scream of the dolls as they wake from their dream. stranded in a world without thieves.


her eyes upside down. like distant smiles. waiting on the enemy.

the warden and the thief equally impress her. a larger prison does not boast greater freedom. only more room inside its cages. dead men on their tightrope dare not fall.

patterns. touch. flesh like freight trains. Overcomes us. We stutter forward. Thin outlines drowning in an ocean of colors. Thickets in a bushel of when. Breathlessly listening for the flower to open.

the bridge is made of monsters. Her skin is made of glass. They can see what's missing. The crank of the numbers as the engine shifts into gear. Forces her forward. Through the dark. Candles. snuffed. Time travels through her. In huddles and gunshots. Simple wounds keep quiet.

And wait.

For her to laugh.

sums and diversions. filthy specters in her bed. the plus. the minus. flows like liquid through her lungs. choking. the hushed hours. the shouting days. spills like sweat from her fingers. distorting everything she's said.

cortisone glances. numb the words. paper fists tear so easily as they knock on doors long closed.

a fever of skin. sick with reason. the bones below. quiver with expectation. nervous numbers. stumble through the algorithm of touch. Empty hands clutch the nothing. the world is just one decimal. Always repeating.

the after comes before. and the later never was. shadows wander through the memory's sunburn. Determined to be stung again. The truth is her blindfold. The future is her gun. Her suicide is slow, but effective.

blood footprints. elevator eyes. gravity like splinters.

she's ugly with counting. soft names in the fury of when. the world was still young enough to give names to such trivial events. the volcano lacking lava. the ocean spitefully drowning.

soft bones. like clay. wet with the conviction of skin. numbers. draw their pictures in her sleep. the quiet nightmare of honesty. she steals the words from each moment that betrays her. listening to the world as it chokes. on its own arrogance.

the hours in pin pricks. a stammer of proximity. a circus of skin. overcome with clowns. an earthquake of choices. bored with tremors.

the whisper ignites. and we shout at the flames.

orphans and thieves. the same. curious strangers with their various fingers in the soup. the fever of now. and tasting. a blizzard of skin. her eyes like a distant medicine. no cure. just managing. the depths of the craving. insects arrogant enough to choose their skeletons.

mercy evolves. first empathy. then madness. eventually resent. skin stretches. to fit. the burgeoning distance. between savior and skeptic.

limp dolls. score the dance with equal parts silence and gawk. dull hatchets on the broken fence between reality and reason. the thick margins. all starved. the tall trees. still far from heaven. that spoil this empty forest. all the monsters between her legs that convince him. hell is worth revisiting.

struggling engines. try to measure. broken men tell their stories in how close they came.

distance judged in echoes of if.

broken toys play with her more than she does them. fastidious intimacies scorch the flesh. grinning devils with loose zippers. the intricate repetitions of touch betray intent. patterns lost. empty heavy with the science of want. scabs shed. a cough of how amongst a mercy of when.

her markers all dry. her pencils all dull. the mania of nervous fingers on the seams of decision. defeat pretends to find her. though she argues that's not it. narrow roads. steep hills. the angle is measured by degrees. and remains as cold as ever.

one drum beating. a hoarse lamb teasing lions. ugly with truth. frantic with apathy.

severity is the steps. rage is the roof. there are no doors nor any windows. in the house that she has built.

the iris stumbles. the cornea fails. but sight is situated elsewhere.

the voice struggles. the tongue drowns. she wears the wolf. confident in the fit of his fangs. just teeth. little bites. our choices devour us.

the machine. the arithmetic of the moment. the stranger in her gown. still learning. how to count. shallow dents in the soil.

open windows. still let the rain in.

no colors. to chase the strays. as they wander. no monsters. to tempt the science. as life comes undone. quantum marathons under her skin. cut and scrape and wait. For the scabs to form. Lanterns and rope and choosing. The dark befriends her. Little spiders with their legs all in a dance. Working on their webs. The intricate details of want versus have.

a stab in the ink. Images poised for battle. The allure of war. As it infects both thieves and millionaires.

no change. lazy witches in their houses too sweet. no picnics. just empty baskets. left over after the wolves have feasted.

the light stumbles in. bought and paid for prior to this juncture. sticks and stones to tell her by broken bones. scoundrels and kings. scribble their treasure maps on vaginas and tits.

Lies are patient. It's the truth that makes you chase it.

how close we were. to knowing. the whims of dead men. the question resolves to what we are. Hem on the edge of the world.

the chase. the absent sermons of self. Heavy springs. Not inclined to give.

The monster. Lips stern with decision. The hours. Gentle and keen. As they slit her wrists. Numbers she says. But words are what she whispers. When no one is listening.

The trial. The purchase of skin. In places I'll never go. In journeys I'll never finish. The numbers in calm excuses. The certain arithmetic of when we knew. how close we were. how far we'd come. Her cunt presses hard against the wall. Imagining there are scales more delicate. than gravity's monotonous prison.

I would measure him in stutters. A focused repetition. Like everything must be. Loud and feeble. Keys stuck in the lock and soiled  handles. Short drives that take too long. We're always going to or leaving. Never are. There.

As if there is a place. A black stab on a map. Where it all converges. The crumbles of flesh and the gnashing of touch and the speed of the hours. In a beautifully controlled chaos called destination.

I would draw him in pencil. No colors. Just grey. Soft mutable lines. To trace the whisper of his words. The frail thunder in his voice as he would gently drift away. Into the vacuum of his loneliness. A victim. A monster. A friend.

No voices. Just skin. Like carbon paper. Picking up. Imprinted with what's on top. No reason. Just a game. Throwing and collecting stones. An empty dance. To the music of touch. Choreographed by the deaf.

Little women and smaller men. Fluorescent fingers charm the corners. Of dark rooms impatient with flesh. Her beautiful time machine panics. Gone too far. And no way back.

control decides her. failing clocks. struggle toward the twelve. in a slump of hunger. as loud as it is quiet. onion paper and velvet thumbs. fingernails of the monster. for the girl to chew on.

her skin defers to marrow and bone. the hard. the center. viscous and urgent with empty weapons. bloodless wars in silent parchment. each hour softly stabs at the growing hole.

skin is rapid. touch is adamant. vague ghosts shelter in the folds. of words soft and eager zippers. Too easily undone.  By salted thumbs and sober fences. The clever lies that make the world hum. In shallow whispers. Filthy condoms. Absent gods. And coupon heavens.

her truth betrays her. auctioning surrender. in scraps of touch and the leather of her cunt. the hours listen. almost deaf. Mouthing the words to a fading song. She traces the moon. Her fingers long. Her shadow small. Chasing atoms with a hammer.

color and conundrum. the grave spark. beautiful witches. all their warts listening. eyes open. lips thin. a rainbow of vaginas. to quench thirsty dicks.

she tells me to wait. count the squares. as the pebble stumbles. a flourish of flesh. the rumble of touch. on the scab of her kiss. the pertinent drama of want. in a thunder of touch. i wait for her to feel the weight of the monster. as the slope steepens.

small pegs. big holes. cardboard and Ferris wheels. in a frenzy of mucous. alone. apple pie and venison. layers. scotch tape fingers and checkerboard kisses. he prepares for the winter. one leaf at a time. purchasing snowflakes in an auction of when.

there is the future. ugly and eager and impatient. foul bricks on the knuckles of slaves. there is the past. buttons and bows and nooses. stealing its victims. in small stones and numbered squares. Sirens and buckets and needles. All stabbing and pretending to know. the depth of the abyss.

yellow. the outside curdles. the monsters under her skin. the vultures. her choices. like obituaries. too late. the world in simple villains. Heroes not withstanding. the soil choked with footprints. Places to go.

the window. the fever of the glass. as it ignites. seldom notes. scribbled in ink. the clever math of prophets as the future gracelessly repeats. the comforting madness that is touch as it drowns in our scabs

red like sirens. too loud to know. sweet like the apple that means to poison.

Life is just like dying. Only messier.

Her feeble sketches. Pretending to learn. And still failing each quiz. Her numbers infatuated with gravity. That a force so weak controls everything.

drying markers. paper eyes. waiting on pupils. her thoughts yellow. her voice red. her body an outline. her cunt a rainbow. nothing the same. everything in colors. sparks of high and embers of low. quiet victims. impatient floods. damp matchsticks. masturbating on the stone.

her words like dirty fish hooks. poisoning the water. whispers. barely more. maybe less. grey autumns on the edge of the branch. gravity beguiling the severity of the fall. the nervous charm of the sunset. in the tender of her palm. just one stab and then there's blood. and life is ours again.

in the pink knot of her vagina. monsters weep like orphans. afraid and alone. her skin in gentle parables. quietly keeps the rhythm. of little girls far from home.

she doesn't speak. only listens. bartered cellars and the pins in those blackened windows. the thin glass smiles. as it tries her on. deaf with buttons and blind with zippers. like a child. like a fist. the rope burning through it fast. as if such things can be caught.

Years like daggers. Shallow cuts. The mercy of madness. In sobs and bullets. Forgetting. The vultures. The broken math of weak men determining the difference.

the years are soft. like melting ice cream. frail splints stuttering the bone. bashful monsters with their claws caught in the curtains. Every moment larger than the space it occupies. Patches of skin like pirates. Grabbing anything it can. The gentle monster trying to reason with eulogies and vultures. No numbers. Just engines. In the throes of the future. Injecting truths she's only recently discovered.

the net like crayons. frail colors.. soft tips. eager artists. the candy house is eaten and the witch is still waiting on her dinner. the monster calls her by name. in the vague transition from choke to vomit.

a warehouse of skin. distributing touch. in empty paychecks.

the rabbit. searching for its missing foot. in turbulent closets and anxious drugs.

she sees. with her hands. with her hips. every other part of her is blind. but she's still looking.

the vein is small. the venom is weak. gods like light bulbs burned too hot. broken filaments and spreading darkness. she's gentle with the button. as she presses for the cure. as devoted to her disease as any addict.

lazy gods with their heavens in their back pockets. dropping breadcrumbs we'll not follow.

platforms in the dark. passages through the sun. she wears the light in strands of color. soft bridges sketch her path. in knots of  skin.. melting crayons like whispers between lion and sheep. the gentle roar of empty hours and bleeding claws. pictures. manic suicides. the dial. the voracious hum of the time machine. as it devours all thee people we thought we were.

little piglets. in their succulent mud. an earthquake of touch swallows her.

the hours made of glass. translucent and so fragile. the mountain small. the sun frigid. nothing as it seems. it's the end of the world. but the world won't listen.

ugly ducks. beautiful monsters. i search for the difference and fail. the rumor of happiness gives chase.

a thunder of how. a confession of when. her  margins are drawn in the red around her thighs. the coax of gravity  on her cunt undetermined in power. but definitely strong.

she wakes him. his gentle alarm. the world in itches. not yet scratched. her heart a tumor. a malignant cancer in her head. she waits to die. a dime in the well. heavy with wishes.

the world in zippers. coming undone.