barking silence. relative scabs. tender bridges stumble toward the edge. trembling fists grip the math. of broken soldiers in hollow's war.

the hour stumbles over the irony of when. the sober clenches on the serendipity of how.

swept away in a waterfall of skin. drowning is a blessing.

the flow exceeds us. we are footnotes. in stories alreayd written. curious jack o lanterns. dug out, yet still aglow with the flames of our crumbling bridges.

the last plane. as it strokes the horizon. the sole division. as we consent to the deficit. a fraction of lies. a mortgage of moments.

a lifetime of debt.

her steady commitment. small hills survive by mimicking mountains. her timid resistance. snowy sidewalks wear the cold in fading footprints. we make our paths. knowing time will erase every step.

we choose to remember

we are predator. and we are hunted.

lost in a contest of flesh.

a summary of regret. poison perimeters. dwindling edges. skinless dolls flaunt their bones. sexy skeletons stumble through the broken choreography of trust. a series of brief wars that spill into a greater conflict.

she promised me when. at a time before she knew what it could mean. she gave me then. in exchange for the long needles and the small knots. a murky circus of transitions. she was the clock. for the pace of all gods in this marathon of discontent.

shuffling the years. wagers and bluffs. win and lose us. the narrowing plane. the shallow cutss. broker this wealth of skin. as if it is ours to spend.

a familiar hunger. an easy submission. an earnest fairy tale. that always ends in loss.

the solvent accord. death is much too patient a friend. numbers sweat. years listen. the orbit is resolved. the gravity is stubborn. no sober heroics. nor broken rubber bands. will alter the course. each night the war occurs. every morning it ends.

teeth in the wind. chew. gnaw. rarely swallow. hunger's place is far outside this shrinking crucible of paper hearts..

she digs. as if the path has a motive. she digs because the struggle seduces. graves resonate with hope. the promise of the end. a distant Eden ripe with murder.

shallow cuts diminish the skin. the ostentatious circus of touch. spoils everything.

the curtain. the snow and ice. the weather decides us. in suffocating storms. and the depths of our shovels. as we dig through a mountain of moments in search of a path. blades cut the winter. but it's only we who are bled. carve the sun. ambivalent monsters. dead switches.

we wear the nails. we thirst for the hammer. as the structure comes undone. soft walls divide us. a glimpse of light briefly splits years of darkness.

the hollow resonance of wolves and piglets. a broken fairy tale. desperate for a moral that isn't present.

the shelter. the simple math. of complex conditions. the Doppler effect. the echo of surrender. when there's nothing left to want.

the hinge surrenders to its arc. the space. the thunder. of curious happenstance. she chisels. picking at the edges. seldom corners manipulate the scars. the texture of when. the sting of how. the subtle  collision of circumstance. that solves for if.

stained dolls. in their open dresses. the sober geometry of all the things we want. dense circles pounding on the diameter. weak numbers struggle against the sway of experience. the fickle of lust. seldom surrenders, but is always lost.

an ambush of certainty. the rigid grin of want. stabs the moment. in a murder of touch.


the hours bite. indifferent fangs. they swallow. without hesitation. mired in the freedom of monsters. small in the shadow of when.

the years diminish. we slip further away. nothing changes, except us.

choices... nickels and  dimes. eventually add up. the end so certain. yet the beginning still to be determined.

a series of sharp hungers. each more urgent than the last. a panic of love. much better starved than fed.

empty stretchers. surrounded by sirens. twisting paths. leading nowhere.

her jealous vices. stain the silence. broken pencils stabbing for certainty in a endless chaos of moments. each word an avalanche.

pieces just barely there. faint scratches in the glass. a distant world. familiar, yet lost. a page torn. a gap. in a story unfinished.

her weakness. her pleasure. one destination. two paths.

the subtle coax. the liberal charm. of imagination and want.

the ramp. the gentle angle to get on. the easy speed. of poetry. the innocent math. of touch. the hungry precision of the loneliness as it manipulates our velocity.

there is no map. there is no speed limit. only the peril of getting there.

spent matches still hot from the dead flame. to keep us warm.

seldom and sober. the creases in when. like melting crayons. in the echo of impatient skins. colors seeping. acqueiescent and humble. the fierce of weakness consumes. a cascade of pebbles in a funeral of boulders.

broken glass still clinging to the window's frame. cuts a trecherous path to seeing what's out there.

her angles are soft. her greys consume. touch has its secrets. distance cannot keep us apart. a loose overcoat in a fickle storm. sometimes it just rains. more often it pours.

the traffic thickens. the journey stalls. a bruise of colors. a scream of skin. hungry fingers cuts the darkness. still it bleeds only empty promises.

open windows to the winter. embracing the cold with a stubborn kiss. all her flowers. broken stems and fallen petals. all her hopes sweet with surrender.

the ample purgatory of intimacy and distance. scrapes heaven's perimeter. but rarely finds its way in.

nesting dolls. time's nervous acumen. the accounting. in sweat and drugs. the business of flesh. deftly brokering its profits. and its loses.

we simmer and stew. close to the flame. far from the heat. we spoil and break.

soft cures dance on the blade.

we boil and evaporate. condensation and heat. a moist surrender. a skeptical victory.

we are lost. as all fragments tend to be. jagged shapes consumed by the grey.

the deeper colors forget. monsters and cocoons. steps from heaven the ground gives way.

the pleasures of damnation overwhelm. and deftly persuade.

we are loud. as loud as silence can be. content with our sharp edges. the corners it keeps. and the skin it has claimed.

cracks in the world. paper cuts in the darkness. we don't go very far at all. it's the depths that takes us. frayed puppets hysterically searching for which strings are the ones that will make us dance.

soft corners. pliant bridges. a series of grays. all our perspective lies in the distance. the view from the top of the mountain is quite similar to the one at the bottom. in either place, everything is small. and too far away to grab.

warm hands. cold fingers.

thoughts like bullets. or at least as loud. an anarchy of choices. the constant treason of touch. dull needles. twisted thread. overcome by the holes they had meant to repair. a good hurt. if you can stand it.

the obvious archetypes of beginning and end reluctantly confess. the journey is but a single stab in a long series of cuts. 

warm hands. touch.

the silence roars. a feral beast. the flame manipulates the void. a chisel. shaving away the meat of the dilemma.

the calendar concedes. pressing paper skins.

a new year. laden with old choices.

a simple atonement.

open books spill their stories into the silence. ladders in the wind. voices in a storm. the scales adjust. the weight is relative. the dead are always hungry. flesh is deaf. touch is an unquenchable thirst.

the colors stumble. infants learning to walk.

the moments fall. like raindrops. in a hurricane.

the wilting darknesss. blossoms. like so many suicides.

the impossible persistance of time. releases its poisons.

fingers. words. glances. all the broken scales. that attempt to measure. what was never there.

the horizon. the distance. an inevitable convergence. all beginnings melting into a central chaos.

desire. trust. lies the skin tells. hungry creases in old scars.

her laughing thighs. and weeping tits. the earnest soldiers of a long lost war.

her fingers work the wilted prisons of gods and time. the delicate poisons that fortify our madness. soft edges in the darkness that sharpen agsint the sting of light.

the distance whispers. blood on the blade dries. the edge is polished with confession. the map is drawn with whys.

hunger boasts its questions. in shallow cuts and thin ulcers. a fiction of choices. bargains the narrative. a preponderance of words. rush to fill otherwise empty skins.

sorry reds. and regretable blues. broken windows. lick at the wind. the winter wagers the dead. vacant soldiers in a war of missing moments.

the epiphany recognizes those strangers. fractions of how.

these stubborn ghosts still peddle their worthless math.

the cold forms its thin crust. brittle nails struggling to hold together rotting wood.

the winter arrives anemic, yet heavy. a stained blanket. ripe with urine. and dying things.

time stops at some point. or rather it gives up. crumbles like so much stale bread.

the walls wither. the hours wheeze. this cancer they call life consumes all the living.

the brittle boards pretend a floor. the choking flame imagines light. but the darkness knows our deepest secrets.

time whispers in the gnarled folds of broken skin. wounds still alive long after the scars have smothered them. time doesn't heal. it only forgets.

the stir of gravity. like butter. melting into blood. the acquaintance of skin. the perjury of touch. tightening its knots.

blue epiphanies arrive. in gusts of wind and frigid fists. the world is delicate. lace and shit. held together by wealth and madness.

she digs. she searches for the source. gravity humming in her head like an impossible song. a small fire stranded in a long winter. a weak lock on a heavy door. the world is stopped. unwilling, the cold is hot. an urgent flame defies the storm.

the winter comes. as it must. each year. in some form. to smother. to weaken. to humble. to narrow the path. to pretend the failing warmth. to prove what is lost.

worn by the edge. savaged by the circumstance. time is the needle. skin is the thread. the seams betray us. each breath is a villain. amd a prince..

the ample scars. the yellow angles. the permanent arithmetic of open wounds.

continues to subtract. long after all is lost.

the end stumbles. the beginning vomits. the purchase of hours a fierce debate. in rivers of now. in oceans of when. and life. the inadequate vessel with which we attempt to navigate. counting out loud. stroking the numbers. the yellow tendrils of choice. propagating like so many weeds.

there are gaps. a spectacle of flesh. like dead bulbs still humming with the electric. the years swallow and chew. torn lips and broken teeth. determined to consume what meat is left. on the spoiling carcasses of our happiness.

she'll only sometimes listen. when the silence overwhelms. purple nightmares that awaken just under the skin. jagged mazes that always solve to the edge.

bickering angles in the creases of her lips. all the words fall into them. all the world catches in their depths. a sweet honey pot overflowing with piss. the map is altered. rare choices pound their fists.

the sober argument of yesterday scream their dying whispers.

open wounds flaunt their art. the body is the ultimate truth. the end. and the beginning. the sunken clock in the absense of gravity.

soft sketches. faint pencil marks. trace the world in numbers scarred. the peculiar science of broken hearts. sharp blades measure the void. in shallow cuts.

the rain gives chase. as the winter consumes. falling menaces. changes. like hollow bones. continue to resist.

warm meat still against the bone. pulls against the fangs. but eventually is consumed.

tender corners in this stubborn prison. bend, but do not give.