scrape the thigh. stray arrows pierce the gullet. she watches. eyes closed. skin stretched flat. funerals on if. pissing loudly. into empty toilets. all of the elegant poisons that embellish life. traced in shit.

the foul art of waiting for change to recognize us.

pull the zipper. knot the thread. the edge of the world getting too close.

the decimal misplaced. numbers rogue with skin. the fractions frantic as we reach to touch the dwindling pieces.

the expanding forest. growing faster than we can map. the instinct to stay lost stronger than the one to find. young once and never again. led out in the world and abandoned there. empty rifles. waiting on bullets.

lambs and lions slipping into bed.

Stitches fib. That the fissure is repaired. Knots pull on the needles. Fraying threads chase the skin. Until we are small enough. And all these angles can breathe again.

The petty tyranny of nerves. the brave rebellion of flesh. quiet wars getting louder.

she wakes him. with razors and vomit. the brutal science of trust betrays her simple mazes. the stuttering walls. the quivering exits. like thunderstorms from the wrong side of the window. like dolls all too eager to part with their stuffing. a tear in the seams starts the story. it's always finished by a needle and a knot.

her puzzles are always the same. numbers violating. deaf walls trying on their eyes. seeing for the first time. the distance that separates. kings and men. little soldiers with big guns. aiming at the furthest target. the callous camouflage of apathy. like an appraoching eclipse. everyting darkening. the univrse deferring to residual patterns.

her key. still in the ignition. that arrogant device. that thundering motor. that would absolve us of if this weighted flesh. blind coyotes. deaf moutains. painful patterns. puzzles more road than pavement.

the thieves. the eager strangers with their daggers dangling from their arms. the elegant map that touch has drawn. to prove we are still alone.

short stories in the blind of her ambition. broken ladders encouraging her to climb.

Dog ears on the quarks. listening softly as the world chokes on children. fathers. and gods. the curtain. flesh dense with scripts. fists heavy with stages. Fat atoms dancing with muons. Slipping through. Paper nightmares catching fire in her brain. Dared by the forest as it is effortlessly consumed. Grateful for the nothing

Tangents. Divisions of self fortified by quanta. The clone. The distant messiah. Ripe withe hanging icicles as the summer comes on strong. The bridges that betrays us as we try to run. Beautiful seasons lost to ugly gardens.

Time travel, the weak protagonists in this arrogant novel. apathetic monkeys sleeping on the bomb.

No colors. No measure at all. For right or wrong. Just waiting. To see what truth has survived. what lies can still be sold.

atlas shrugs. And he loses his grip..

Oblong boxes. ripe with goodbyes. nothing inside them.

the simple colors of waiting. the goes red. the stops colorless. eyes on the terminal. obvious connections fuming with subtext. the dispatch. the portal. the sweep of gravity as it scoops us up. small sticks speaking softly and carrying us.

paper faces to draw upon. soiled mirrors. broken capsules. as the drug interrupts forgetting. with its perfect knots. in strings much too long. with their needles selling stitches that only lead to more holes. the welcome poisons of time and distance try her on. it doesn't need to fit. just be loose enough to get lost in.

Pencil marks. the ambivalent loyalty of failing senses. you think you can smell it. the foul singe of no longer wanting what could be. you think you can taste it. an empty sweetness in the thunder of her kiss. you think you can hear it. the impervious silence. that steals her from the moment. you think you can see it.

the approaching darkness.

but you're wrong.

it's already here.

numbers. the institution of skin. the mountain becomes. the distance like mascara. Eyes closed. Sight determined. the weather in her back pocket spilling over.

it's always too much.

Pinwheels chasing the wind. One storm at a time. The dead from their graves debating the fever of the sun. Try to remember. How close it is.

Monsters in their nightgowns. Tracing gravity. Polishing their fangs. Hungry thieves trapped in that dusty dollhouse.

it's always too little.

Counting. brittle conjunctions between when and how. a panic of flesh. to reason with the cruelty of sight. the skin's trapeze. reaches. grabs at. but seldom catches.

Denim thighs rub the bevel. raw corners turn her. her corduroy lips. flaunt their friction. tentative sparks fumble with the fire. stuttering in her head.

it's always nothing. until it isn't.

the stone breathes. softly against struggling integers. the water winces. differentials. draw the vein. in stumbling markers. barren of ink. the yawning bridge. rarely sleeps. is always open. a swarm of ticks. making their way up her legs.

tunnels in the flesh. speak the math. mountains in the muscle. translate the numbers. knots in the laces of the universe. trials. the jury us. convictions. lacking judges.

the grave laughs. empty as it wants. chewing on the frailty of every step. the soft of the path. the hard of the measure. distance becomes her. fractions of the gods we pretend to know. drugstore magicians cashing in their decks. for thicker capes.

the relentless pistons under her skin. feebly bargaining with the massive engine. that has swallowed them.

a circus of subtraction. Where gravity is the only constant.

spent the dark on better things. now it's just brick and apes. chiseling away at the empty spaces. the choke of time like butterflies pissing on mountains of human shit. the sickness manifests in such a way. that we don't know we're dying.

this flesh a cancer upon the bones beneath. a broken time machine. stuck in the throat of future that is choking on it.

spent the night on softer corners. bargaining with the monkeys. evolution gnawing on the seldom between victims. barely close enough to see. and just far enough away to be sure of. the monsters in her closet spoiling all her dreams.

his pocket knife hardly sharp enough. as he teases the wrist. the years like tissue paper. as she opens up the box.

paces and stabs. abrupt movements from long dead cadavers. the world blinks. tumbling through the current nightmare. chemical religion. paradise in the easy choke of the drug. dimensions and molecules. the ambivalent science of touch.

years like war. skin like soldiers. the battles betray us. suffocating in the small victories.

fractions. chase the wholes. end games with surrender. the threat of time machines. casaual. her bones sick with places she can never go.

push pins in the mania. solvents on the cusp of the turning. the monsters softer. flames hard. Defiant particles unwilling to divide. patient vertebrae. opaque ghosts. encourage the universe to expand.

dsiregarding.

that the corners are sharp and the walls are thin.

bare bones. rubber pencils. scrape the proverbial throat. no forest. slender atoms dance on empty graves. the dead pretend to remember. how it feels to live. the living laugh. as if there is a difference.

how long. stares measured in years. how far. distance counted in faces. alone stumbles in. eager stabs at apathy. spill the paint. spoil the witches. leaving lost children stranded in houses of sour candy.

the rabbit races. slower still missing his legs. the tortoise gives chase. the cruel patience that marks every epiphany. she waits for his answer. threads of skin knotted with choices. she rights her army. simple soldiers in a war too complicated. the future finds her. Free, but searching for a new cage.

The hours rush in. Bald wagers on broken horses. The simple math of wanting. the complex evolution of decision. Turning blades from the steel in her head. The deaf listening. as conversations consume us.

The end of the world in bubble gum wrappers and pocket knives.

simple stitches. the needle swims in tessellations. her quiet manias. barking. struggling against their leashes. sunburn demons. and lazy gravity. spoiling the world for waiting.

sharp sticks. dull places. the lie of wanting. little red wagons. on the trail of strangers. chasing the sun. the light flees. the darkness beckons.

a canvas of flesh. a palette of touch. the pigment of want too deeply embedded.

her monsters mute. continue to scream. her heroes blind. see too much. purchased by the hells to which we've committed.

red apples. fallen close to the tree. forbidden fruit content with the threat.

seldom dolls spread their plastic legs. swallow the nothing. to prove the hole is genuine.

her voice. broken glass. insects on the ladder. as the roof sneaks away from us. tired stories. fetid narrators. short of words.

icecubes dress her. needles bend. the dirtier the vein the cheaper the tourniquet. soft dolls with smudged faces. crayon arms and gasoline souls. numbers to yell at the window. soiled curtains. let the world in too soon.

wolves unzipping from their sheep. hollow pants. empty blouses. numerous gods to be found.

waders and optimists ford the river how. her voice is gnawed blankets. her face an aging bridge. Caught in the distance between the person and the skin.

choices. like the theater. a stutter of bones. sick with an audience.

windows flush with the chaos. animals. lost in a perpetuity of evolution. stray dogs. their prey limited by the willingness of when.

Patience. Merchants of if. stroke the sun. pet away the diseases that confess us to humanity. Thin curtain juggles the shadows. the simple debts of living betray her.

The end rushes in. Loudly waiting for what's next.

lions thick in their winters. empty chambers. as the elevator sinks. no one. permanent ghosts. on the tether of flesh. doing the obvious math. Subtracting. Dividing. Pretending the sums have leeway. brick houses. Determined to withstand the wolf. Straw allies.

Dead things. Like road maps. Chase us toward the destination. Failing the journey. Every choice a louder scream. Her bony pulpit. Whispers. The hard sway of humanity. As hollow as its ever been. Plastic blades to swat the blood from fallow veins. The empty revolution of want. Pretending to know its victims.

The world spilling in. a flood of circumstance. drowns the notion. of choice. power. arrogant as any assassin. Tracing her skin. A world of outlines. Too beautiful to corrupt with these tired conditions.

The zipper opens. The war presses through her. From heart to lungs to fingerprints. A blurry price tag on a broken totem. Everything for sale.

Broken hooks. Graze the hem. Students of time. Heavy downpours steal the path. Be patient. Let's be lost for a while. See how we like it.

Torn maps. Fragments of getting there. Same beginnings. Ever evolving ends.

Debris in the storm. Patterns form the machine long before we've built it. Habits program the atom. Centuries prior to the hysteria of skin.

Naked. Choosing. Monkeys. Sure of their sticks. No monsters. Only men. Resembling them too well. No bargains with sleeping toads.

the world is angles. a smothering geometry of intersections.

Letters on the ink. Tip toes and seldom parades. Bits to bargain. Weak poisons on the hem of her lips. Numbers too sure. gowns doused in the drug. Waking up to the softer monsters. Sleeping next to the rest. Railroads in her breath. Rifles under her eyelids. She whispers a scream. No one listens. But everyone hears it.