the surface echoes in a smooth chorus of what has been. the wind laughs at our rigid paths. the road shakes its fist at the obstinate itinerary of touch.

the flow of the atoms. a fierce current. unseen waterfalls. the art of drowning shits out its portrait.

the journey whispers. the distance chokes. the farther i go. the closer i get.

the machine. the moving parts. metal gods and gasoline ghosts. raiding the attic for discarded playthings.

a broken lock. a rotting door. all the windows missing.

the skid. the abrupt end. the tread. the signs. navigating the past. a maze of empty syringes. that still reek of paradise.

the reaction. the pantomime. asphalt and condoms in a sweet slurry. a vortex of skin dares her to remember.

it was far. the distance became her as she went further. it was still cold, though it shouldn't have been anymore. she fussed with the colors. the delicate science of sober. like an open drawbridge. no boats in the water. just the gap. louder than ever.

she watched the train. slow as it was. she drew the maps. in spoils of skin. and stubborn pinnochios.

her thoughts like rain. fall quietly. ignoring the bottom. it changes. so often. her loyalty like traffic. going in every direction. and nowhere.

folding the butterfly. a  paper apocalypse. opening all the zippers on her skin. chasing the stubborn detours. not lost. only exploring unfamiliar places.

the locked doors listening. orphans and strangers. boasting their sticky wings.

the atoms. their sharp epiphanies in slow cuts. vicious demigods in knotted sashes and sour utopias.

the seldom monsters and the frequent ones. a circus of oblivion. softly swallowing the end.

the edge of the world. strangely lacking gravity. the falling. a panic of broken needles and empty stitches.

loudly listening to the holes.

a cold end. a yellow defeat. soft stones strike the glass, but rarely break it. the long math of faces betray the simplicity of skin.  tease the frigid. in quiet chokes of wind. and the loud epiphanies  proximity tends to overlook.

stones crumble. the dust confesses. the jaws of the moment bite down. chew.  and we are consumed. quietly digested. like everything else that is dead.

the pace is irrelevant. no destination. just going. always searching. for corners that tend to meet. the curious angles that lead us to connections. fluctuating degrees. and tardy rabbits. overwhelmed by Alice's copious dream.

Small. large. then back again. the winter is stubborn. the scale is passive. we measure by other means.

the shadow across her thoughts. the hesitation in her pills. the humor in her grief.

chaos pretending progress. life like shoelaces coming undone.

soft stalks in the thick grass. tease the sun. assuming life is residual. or some form thereof. her bricks carry her. in stiff tongues and absent martyrs. life is small. smaller than we ever imagined.

shattered tiles  on the stairs. the impossible logic of trust. simmers and burns in its empty pot. the gentle paradox of deception. boasts its graves in fractions of the original math. there is no such thing as addiction of subtraction. only corners where the shadows relent.

this long walk forgets the obvious parables. the distance concerns itself only with the echo. the mind's beating drum. the simple rhythm of pulsating skin. stubborn electrons racing against entropy.

Wooden steps wear their beginnings in broad clouds and questionable loyalties. We continue our climb. Confident that the altitude is sufficient to offset foul weight of gravity.

life arrives in hammers. Exits in nails. an innocent tangle of freedom. an immense wall of choices. a tricky prison not without its weaknesses.

her skewed geometry of touch. arrives in heavy downpours. yet manifests in delicate floods.

collisions and droughts pierce the sober wind. life is a series of butterflies chewing off their own wings.

no sneeze. no chain of events. the empty abyss that surrounds us our only connection.

the rain breathes. in slender angles that give us strength to dare. the water sings its path. a graceful cascade of ghosts in a last surrender to gravity.

her eyes like broken math. a frenzy of calculations desperate for an answer.

her lips are sour candy. but sugar is all i taste.

change is always ready. but sometimes the caterpillar delays.

hard measures. angles and what not. such as the body is. divided. slivers and threads boast their independence. the larger mass mostly gravity and the subtle science of apathy.

sex's crass magicians pull rabbits from our heads. time's adamant priests locate paradise in the most unlikely places.

there is a momentum to the grey. a tide beneath the sober. and all of us are devoured in its hunger. we can never be. nor ever have been. that time was long spent before we noticed it. we flail in our emotional bankruptcy while the taste of wealth stubbornly lingers on our lips.

the pauses have their secrets. a mania of escapes in a quiet house of cards. like the ocean. trapped in its cycle of touch and go. like the edge of the world. A much sharper angle than it would seem.

the color of flesh. always changing. dark to light. and back again. a kaleidoscope of pleasure colliding with the life's tedious conflicts.

the pretentious wars of women and their affections.

a trodden path. a footprint too far. the juncture. like a soft poison. the moment a brilliant suicide.

black ties and empty tuxedos. weigh the skeletons. the questionable accuracy of choice. a flurry of pennies and wishing wells. quieter than i remember.

flesh betrays. hope is a treason. the war comes and goes. the struggle is constant.

solvent syllables in the theater of the choke. deaf as the wolf. Blind as the Earth. She carries her pennies in fistfuls. Arriving at the fountain without the luxury of a wish.

the yellow. the simple bridges. manifest their sober. in eloquent ghosts. and the patterns. all too similar to losing hope.

isoleses triangles. the weak geometry of skin. jagged puzzle pieces. in a pciture yet to be determined. she scribbles the world. in dull pencils and fading ink. imagining time in crusts of bread. and doses of medicine.

softening the affliction with repetition and indifference.

the madness. the sweet apple skins of insanity. like paper fingers. trying to grab hold of  a deepening  abyss.

burnt soldiers and faded wars.  purchase their edges in bent ladders and soft scabs.

the wound has its grin. the infection yawns. as the sharper angles reach their equilibrium.