her broken ice. her shivering numbers. naming the clouds. in deafening consonants. the end of the world. smudged pencil and solvent storms. her fingers hurry over the letters. as the words confess.

a man is only the sum of his choices. a moment is just the spark. life bends and twists. nagivating the tunnels of our discontent. bent neeldes. ripe with all the poisons worth covetting.

the diagram. the mystery of the window. as it breathes open. to let the foul in. dead things like pieces of treasure. and diaappointment in its tuxedo. as handsome as ever.

she takes the pill. wishing it would take her instead. the vague conundrum of displacement. chokes on the volume it's meant to measure.

the nothing names her. loud acrobats tumble. in soft colors. in steep angles. the wolf inhales.the piglets wait. to find out if the house is still standing.

life happens. in knotted ropes. and radomn colors. a desperate admission  of skin. undoes the knots. bargains with gravity. the slope of surrender. the condition of apathy. the same homogenous blend of blood and god that have always failed us.

the broken bread. in chaffing flesh. the scraping how. in itching scabs.

there are easier paths. there are stronger threads.

but the machine knows us. better than we do each other. the motor bites down. threatening to expose those tender corners.

she sighed. violating the silence.

slender twigs of sober trembling at the extremities of the greater tree. desperate stabs of punctuation in a lifetime of run on sentences.

the hours sneak inside. needles full of welcome poisons. skin like ghosts haunt and chafe. at the corruption of their wagers. gravity an unlikely ally. in the war the mirror wages.

the shadows always win. the angles always sharpen.

time like a ribbon. beautiful knots in all the wrong places. and the empty boxes it tempts us to open.

just the edge. in the shallows of when. dull words bruising the wind. heavy fists lapping at the blood.

slivers of when. gravity coughs. sickening every footstep. she pauses. the future on her tongue. feral and eager. a trembling ladder under the window of discontent.

broken paces. staggered tremors. chase the edges of a sinking portrait. the taper of how. soft candles pledged to the darkness. the shallow of if. all the stories in her flesh. beckoning. to be read. a pandemonium of dull needles and tangled threads. contstruct each moment.

as if  the universe is empty. of everthing except us.

the quantum particles. the filaments of movement. all of it a show. to arrange this connection.

the sober corners. slip away. heavy buckets spill over.time's jaws chew, but fail to digest.  dull razors befriend naked wrists. in a series of surrenders. more the holes in them forgotten.

another world. a different lock. but the key still fits.

the bridges twist and you're different all at once. no cigarette between time's lips slowing burning as it should. sometimes evolution is abrupt. that lonely safety pin that held reality together finally came undone.

just the smallest pieces. the kind we can hardly perceive. those are the shape and the form of everything. it's not a puzzle to be solved. like rain, it just falls on us.

the future came and went and i hardly knew. a long sigh of years snuck its way under our skin. and by then it was too late. those soft corners had already formed. those tender walls had spent all their shadows. the only thing left to do was surrender. to the theorems of Pythagoras. and the empty angles he'd have us measure.

time's foul merchants. bluster and breeze. awkward witnesses to the ugly epiphany of choices.

a labor of words pretends to know.the cost of gravity. the fealty of darkness. a suspicion of skin betrays them all.

small corners in the construction of larger walls. focus their arithmetic. on the bittersweet candy of division.

nearsighted gods squint their omnipotence. in a diarrhea of choices. the world bends. a chaos of stones and rubber bands. arrogant with a diminishing purpose.

the moment shifts in weights and measures. heavy with diminished demons.

she kneads the grave. she polishes the empty. until it sparkles the same as it does inside her head. a quiet thread runing through. festering skin.

a comma of darkness. a colon of epiphany. the calm punctuation of the dead. like a flower picked too soon. the void remembers.

jagged edges tell their stories. in sips of wine and doses of skin. the void romances her. the dead are loud. the end is quiet.

want suffers no masters. we are free to covet. the needle bargains with the thread. simple stitches overhwelmed by the hole they try to mend.

ghosts tell their stories. as they are given to do. long bouts in pergatory. and its precarious views to heaven.

wounds fester. sick with the suggestion. that this time machine is ours to murder.

we follow. everything does. in its own sickness. a cancer of questions steadily solve her. the science of if. the madness of when. like so many empty skins still in the shape of us.

a powerful silence. a louder confession. the hours that conspire to define us. lay there. gentle hammers. bargaining with gravity.

stuttering lips cure the shadows of their cancer. but the dead are still the dead. and the world is still flat in some places. expressions like ladders made of rope. nearly impossible to ascend. templates of skin. anticipate the colors that seldom come.

those lazy corners never fail to surprise. with their contents. equally as empty as they are dense. with butterflies and their deceptive sneezes.

the years throttle. the hours combust. inside the engine of our traumas. skin like pages. breath like ink. and the words that would claim them. for everything we've never been.

it's the absense that's most appealing. the limp in her voice that sparks.

the flames have their own ambitions. but the ashes belong to us.

it's not enough just to be crippled. you need to break.

the machine has its parameters. the distance has its girth. lovers get lost. touch remains.

wondering atoms reach for the edge. of an ever expanding universe. the nucleus drifts from center. and everything is chaos and ecstasy. the weakness summons her. a raw king naked at its throne. an empty power. and a despairing fury. slip under her skin. to grow their famine.

The words wince. Against the thickening cold. The woman deliberates. Where the weather ends and she begins. How much distance is too far to go.

The winter approaches softly. Arrives in a scream. She flourishes in the dying. Gravity croons its tender ballads. As the ground clenches hard. The bottom seduces in missing skin and scabby bandages. The elementary physics. The random cuts and bruises. Of willing victims. And reluctant villains.

An empty carousel at the center of the world. spinning slowly. a long courtship with frail demons and  asthmatic gods. at last reaching its suffocating end.

Straw houses betray, And even the brick kind. Eventually fall.

It's the poetry of the circumstance.

the angles waiver. the geometry varies. colors. each one a pin prick. broken dolls. with their lips open. and their plastic tits. throbbing. like some seductive infection. eyes closed. counting. the pulse of the darkness. the splintered glass. where once there was the door.

she converses with her insomnia. forcing the dominoes to wither rather than fall. crumbling corners work the silhouettes. pretending to know how long the echo goes on.

counting. empty fists and bitten tongues. resolved to the density of the numbers. a stew of victims spiced with predators. as every life is. and gently simmers. until at last it boils over the edge of the pot.

she wastes years naming each blade of the green grass. assigning great depth to the smallest of cracks. because that is what people do. they relentlessly try and fail to live. until that privilege is taken from them.

rigid soldiers. foolishly throwing grenades at the wind.

the stubborn arithmetic of flesh. counting out loud. still hoping someone will hear.

simple stops. in the traffic that endures us. obvious pauses. in the skin that wears these eager archers. bones break. that is what they do. when confronted with the agendas of wandering ghosts.

clouds and thunderstorms. on the edge of when. the paths of strays. like broken kisses. and little dips in the fence.

her touch is eyelashes bleeding. knowing strangers. in their other skins. wearing the void like ball gowns. dancing to the rhythm of the silence. time's beveled corners. as blunt as ever. failing to indicate any course. the sting of the remedy is far worse than the sickness.

the sober of her devotion overwhelms. fetid despots of bone and blood assemble their armies. torn jigsaw pieces tender their puzzles. in deep cuts and worn folds.

the light turns. the bridge gapes open. we yield to the inappropriate mechanics of touch.

that is our strength and our burden.

the primer. the scrape of gravity. the freedom of falling. the rain. the heavy bucket. full of holes as it is. to hold. or to glimpse. the fury of when. time in pleats. the world in bends. blunt bandages on festering wound. the fever of if. like knots in broken skin.

time's casual innuedno. numbers scribbling on the base of the brain. its trembling cycle of repetition. dark. light. dark again. the bald mechanics of when. in a fury of subtraction. a seizure of moments.  always hungry to swallow us.

wearing the needle. murdering the monster. as if we were once whole. or could ever be again.warm graves. and the sharp knives that dug them. the soft horizon. the sloping surrender of touch. as the words confess us.

a checkboard of lovers. pretends the queen. a backgammon of touches. barters her breath.

the end overwhelms. tortoises retrace their steps. a slow race backward to victory. falling feels just like flight. without the heavy burden of wings.

The fire questions. Blunt flames tease the darkness. Ample are the heavens we've created. For they belong to us. paper dolls worship the scissors.

the narrow ambition that fuels our wants. loud thunderstorms that leave the land still arid. tell the story. emancipate the past. in hungry licks on the dirty lollipop. surrender remains sweet. while victory is still sour.

time stays behind. spoiling the gods. with burnt chocolates and smeared maps. in parcels of skin. and shallow cuts. temporary monsters. gather the pauses. the quiet that comes between us. worms in the earth. sick with the surface.

I should  have been softer. the light  that waits. the thieves that remain. after everything is gone.

The soldiers move. On leaden feet. the war progresses. within the context of profit and loss.

we play. all bullets and strategy. we waste. in the scope of our private poisons. rainwater in deep barrels. slowly evaporating.

we are all cannibals when the lights go off.

severed jaws.flaunt their fractured words.

choices. their bright alarm. the prison of if. soft and sticky.

her crayons on empty paper. her voice. dull blades and thick bruises. the anatomy of trust overwhelms. wolves and woodsmen. and rotten picnics. the autumn. virulent ghosts. spoil her surrender.

there's only light because i've forgotten the darkness. bald seams on the throat of the universe. beg to bleed. the cripple of how. in sparse raindrops. draws useless treasures in broken glass. pauses stab. punctuating the loss. befriended by the abyss. the edge coughs. succumbs to the sickness.

the hours find gravity in strokes  and nods. the stubborn diseas that is life. eventually resolves to needles and tourniquets. the blade yawns. and effortlessly swallows the clown.

the future whimpers. terrified by the questions. the numbers tremble. more scab than skin.
familiar monsters. grow comfortable in their frowns.

just the bridge for as far as I can see it. just this flesh. drawing its awkward maps. to all the places we'll never go.

waking up still in the dream.stealing the exit from aging ghosts.

sold the dark. pieces at a time. little cuts. quick jabs. suffocated dolls. chewing on their tongues. quiet armies massaging their guns. the numbers always find us. long division of the cruelest kind. our journey takes us no further than the places we've always been.

broken colors search for the swtich. the stark choke of light that solves for the edge.

touching. the scrape of skin. generous scabs. tame the wounds. discpline the bruises.

the hunt comes and goes. a pendulum of flesh. counts the fading moments.

be patient. the day eventually forgets. how close we were.