numbers and flesh. the practical hysterics of gods and men. she traces the path. with broken pencils. content to draw regardless. shattered images more than motivation enough.

quiet monsters plague her fairy tales. too soft to kill.

the random claws. the heavy fangs. like desperate clouds. bursting with rain. condemned to the desert.

the villains rarely have names. the heroes seldom have faces. the world is a brilliant chaos of ringing phones and hollow epiphanies. stout syringes overflowing. with impotent heavens. dusty atoms with their tails on the time machine. fucking fractions of each moment.

farther than we were. closer than we've been. i found her in the future. obvious angles firm in their ink.

more lost by simple maps. the cold geography of flesh. measuring distance too literally. tender wolves ruled by their fangs.

the ugly paradox of choice. like mental diarrehea. 

every hour daring her to become that stranger in her head. who whsipers of moments. that stick like needles. and break like confessions.

yellow dolls. with frozen eyes. chase the sun. a long eclipse. forgets to end. time stops. though the chase continues.

practical hysterias. gentle crocodiles. all the madness fit for words or flesh. the arrogant ocean. the humble tide. the discrepancies. what i am. what is spent. proving otherwise. a mirror on the moon. reflecting. the light travels all the way back. not to be defeated by the distance.

the incredulous howl. choices. her impotent wolves. panting in the darkness.

the record skips. thoughtless music narrates the dance. between innocent villains and guilty heroes. the ashes. cold hunger lingers. the spark resolves. to absent songs. 

the stairs crumble. the walls fade. only thin glass is left between. the life we had and the one that's had us. skewed blades. bored with the blood. draw their pictures in shallow cuts.

long goodbyes in short skirts. ambivalent equations. the slow arithmetic of skin. pretends to learn. bashful strangers. broken stars study her curves. anticipating the end of the world.

simple dolls. vomit stuffing. corduroy vaginas leverage their zippers.

the atom struggles. a weak umbrella against a hurricane. the desert drinks. from foul glasses. the urgent truth of circumstance. tilting bridges. more science than flesh.

the rabid colors turn to convince. seldom poisons. to commit to barren kingdoms.

quiet parades surrender to. an easy division. the theater of gods submits to the dialogue of men. shallow cuts. profound with infection. lead her, but offer no destination.

pieces of the storm. finding land in orphans. moments of the sickness. selling their desert. the thrust of god pulls on her zipper. a beautiful fairy tale. pantomine of absense. outlines to fill in.

lazy time machines idling. at the beginning of the end.

telling the red. in coughs and scratches. her dirty glasses. her hungry eyes. eager puppets with so many broken zippers. it's cold still. even in this fire. pieces. the jaws of the puzzle find the center. neglected the edges have their own wars.

ugly ducklings paint their mirrors. in thick asides. the story chases, but falls behind. the machine rumbles and churns. confident with rage. Time boasts and brags. Shy predators circle.

So many folds. An oragami of moments. Revise the shape. Betray the math. Of two dimensional lovers.

The deaf colors try to listen. The mute chaos strains to speak. As everything converges. in a mistrial of flesh.

simple boxes. their dusty lids. a poetry of proximity and confession. a labor of gentle madesss. the ugly duckling alive in a beautfiful finish.

Her grey ocean still licks the edges. Her sinking boat still leverages the wind. drifting. the storm is easy. It's the afterwards that stings.

ten voices. one eye. the harmony of madness dances barefoot on the metling ice. sapplings and thieves paint the forest red. no days. only lingering nights. with more words than voice.

the history of skin is written in sweat and scars. the story of everything we were. are. might become. these plastic time machines break and bend. as we struggle to find what was always there.

life spills in. a drizzling rain seeping through the cracks. too shallow to drown us. too deep to allow for an escape.

dirty corners. steal their faces from sleeping gods. she chases the words. a feeble hunter threatening with broken arrows. the sickness that once made her strong now all knots and stones. Heavy ropes find the room where all those empty boxes still wait. for gravity to remember. how far.

grey squares solve her in interrupted algebra. stolen numbers and fugitive colors. stare silently. no words come to rescue. nor heroes dare to save. the bird that cannot fly.

heavy wings beat the darkness. but gravity remains unconvinced.

tomorrow has its stories. frantic fables and lazy lessons. little forests. big children. the epiphany of perspective often stalls at threshold of gods and choices. knotted rubber bans. encompass her words. devilsih time machines. with more irony than wit.

the moment chokes on itself. an awkward suicide of symptons. the sickness turns on itself. another hungry paradise bares its fangs. listens for the blood.

she simmers and listens. an empty tea kettle left on the heat. boiling over with nothing.

the hours like brutal soldiers.

she trembles and quakes. a dead leaf codemned to the fists of the wind.

crumbling.

the child in her heavy shoes. struggles to walk quietly. the burnt math of trembling fingers. as they touch. but fail to feel.

incredulous demon trying on abandoned halos.

laugh because the end was always there. frayed shoelaces and awkward left turns. on a journey without places. filled with synonyms for how to get there. years after there's nowhere left to go.

empty boxes. torn wrapppers. the mortgage of skin and other such devices. a commodity of indulgence. to barter or to leverage. the rich algebra of skin manipulates her. the stern science of humanity. like paper. so little surface. so many sharp edges.

no heroes. just curious villains pissing on capes.

the grey bird sang in soft tones. bent wings flew her closer. but she never reached it. that imaginary place. others called home.

she screamed that it was a parade. she wept that the monsters didn't care. alone in her hysteria. for all the world to disdain. heavy hammers and broken bulbs. flaunting the story of her madness. between dim walls smudged with hope. and other such alluring frailties.

she draws in skin. with her hungry paper. singing songs that no one else can hear. whispering stories that only listen. never tell.

the world ended years ago. she's just waiting for her blood to notice. the infection. eager addicts with far too many exits.

playing songs. soft lullabies pretend her voice. words she's only ever imaigined saying. and all the lies she's told only to herself. the rumble. the earthquake. torn shoelaces. fumbling hte path. that finds us this close to the edge.

the words. the obvious conditions. biting down on the stick. waiting. for the words to remember. us.

the stale kindness of erupting skin. the earnest intent. of broken zippers and empty buckets. the selfish lies that are told by the flesh. they name us. in numbers and fractioms. they push away the clouds, but eventually give in

alone has it's way with her. ean easy rape. a quiet hopeleessness.

that still pretends to know what is missing.

those yellow doors haunt her again. slivers of sickness running parallel to the lock. the hours form their paradox. with threads of skin perpendicular and needles fouled in want. those empty rooms are too patient with their contents. she grows old waiting for them to reveal what is lost.

these blue roads boast of journeys to be taken. or to be taken by. wagging tongues in the mouths of fate. puke their treasure maps.

alone has always suited her. moreso with age. her voice a monster. manic with rage. her heart a bucket. riddled with holes.

she chases the colors. yellow doors. blue roads. purple thresholds. paths to take. or to be taken by. destinations more alive than she's ever been.

places. to be. someone else.

colorful places.

needles and thread. to mend the holes.

smooth stones boast her name. in both execution and resolve. the unfortuante future of the circumstance withers. confesses. to knowing it was always lost. just pretending to believe. in something other than whsipers in the storm.

the dance resolves to the mania. gentle dimples in the swaying wall. the distance long. the journey short. poison apples are what feed us all.

stiff shadows write her vows. to empty gods and tempting flames. the world ends quietly. not loud like we had imagined. spinning rooms. boast windows. overlook the glass.

whispers steal the stories from her lips. angles draw tomorrow under her skin. tracing the cold outlines heroes with dry markers and broken pencils.

a series of colorless heavens welcoming the condemned.

yellow armies sick with time. red soldiers steal the war in pieces. the end of the world has fractions. decimals to contend. that last touch has an algebra. equations to solve. simple tethers. child. student. death. sterile wars. fertile battles.

i could almost taste her. the slick of her resolve. foul with faces. the sour of her fearlessness. crowded roads. aggressive traffic. closer yet. the broken clock in her back. ticking loudly.  the stuck zipper in her throat. biting down. on a stale story suffocating a fresh heroine.

I'm old now. though i never knew i would be. it happens suddenly. life is quiet until it's loud. the simple prisons we construct. to prove it was real. that it can be that real again. deaf gods play their music. in small rooms. in tiny houses. far from heaven. tracing life through cracked windows. on paper made of sacrifice and condition.

i knew them.. or thought i did. chalk faces on the pavement. the tender science of trust. seams in the darkness. chasing ghosts. always more rain than sun. 

the little knives that chase. poets and lovers. the fierce punctuation that manages this madness. one touch at  a time.

she flaunts her colors. soft crayons spoil the book. the pictures draw her. in grey outlines. hard edges haunt the dead flowers.

curtained flames ignite the darkness. she wears her blades blood and all.

masks surround her. her island gasps.

tomorrow tells itself in stories young and old. with paper wrists that smolder ink. and razors of word and bone. tomorrow boasts the future in aimless stabs. an hysteria of raw meat. more hunter than victim.

time passes. in stones and sticks. as hurtful as they've ever been.

the path travels her. in drawstrings and fractions. a feeble math to tame monsters and mountains. the short grass between her toes. laughing and dreaming. of the earnest repetitions that once were living. pebbles in the squares. and one foot counting the distance between. mistake and epiphany.

narrow as it is.

quiet. all her temples crumbling.

loud. everything silent.

the pistons churning. the gas depleted. in the engine of her time machine.

shallow cuts. empty masks. a drought of faces.

titled squares. heavy angles. the math is soft. the flesh evolves in stiff calendars. not counting. just listening as everything happens. an empty chessboard. deaf rules waiting on the shouts of war.

fraying dolls. with their breadcrumbs in their aprons. chasing lost in all directions.

the sweet ghost heaved in bricks and stone. stumbles into her box of words. a paisley of confessions. and awkward glances. time hiccups. its useless song often repeating. until no one hears it.

simple doors with intricate windows. it's the future that solves for the past. that's the physics of humanity.

soft villains in their hard faces wait for the lazy alarm. the only rule is that we are always going, but never get there.

tangents spoil the anthem. of salted gods and stubborn madmen. that rattle in the graveyards of the ugly and the timid. innocent treasures best left behind.

diminished by the curiosities of touch.

her paper skin. ripe. with so many small cuts. folded and bled. blank and afraid. the world claws and barks. silver nightmares slip and scream. on dusty carpets woven of shadows and grief. pressing the numbers. soft buttons of flesh. react and steal. she is gone again. into those seldom whispers that occur between the elapsing hours and dwindling years.

seeing only the colors. no outlines remain. to pretend there is order in the chaos.

indefinite randoms splurge on the science of entropy. this wonderous decay. which throttles each moment back to the first in a eternal apology.

bargaining with the weather for pieces of the sun. stabbing the walls for a missing window. she marvels at the emptiness of choices. she chokes on the frailty of decision.

stubborn storms violate the wind. fickle warriors with their knotted swords and melted armor. these are simple wars. that get complicated by the dead.

she draws like she did as a child. her paper pressed to the glass. chasing the world outside in stabs of pencil. shapes and frictions. her empty gods and hollow prayers. the art of sadnesss. the resonance of skin. the chemistry of voices. numbers to fill. and hemorraghing buckets. as the mountain persues. the fallen stones.

failing lovers leave their blank kisses on the edge of the bed. a slow creak. a passive shadow. teases the moon. as it fumbles with the needle. presses the night deeper. in beautiful drops of oblivion. time is manipulated by flesh. in decimals and scabs. the wounds persue us. into the future and the past. friends in the cloaks of strangers. pawn their empty heavesns.

soft storms settle upon the skin in whispers and confessions. alone trembles. as it digs this road. shallow graves consent their corpses. as we travel each other. in an avalanche of intimacy and regret.