the angles fussed. all talcum powder and feces. the physics shrugged. bored with gravity. its only choices. ambivalent atoms at the center of the storm. it's just paper. quiet songs and soda pop. turning little girls into women.

she walked. the road curious. her steps.villainous. the distance spoiling. like flowers cut. she waited. at the red light. picked fruit. fallen leaves. the courtesy of the wind. pretending change remembers us.

her purple tongue. an immaculate poison. her weakness ripe and succulent. 

she looked for the road. wrinkles in the map. louder than the void.

the structure of lost. all salt and vinegar. the architecture of want. small pebbles in deep water.

it's far she said, as if i had forgotten. as if i could ever forget. the empty chairs. the echoing glasses. the silly way the costumes tend to fit. the ugly seams in the masks.

all grenades and lollipops.

it's getting closer she hinted. as if i couldn't see. how far we'd gone. the wrinkled map. the soiled route. all cellular confessions and paradox.

her angle. her unspoiled contrition. soft matchsticks trying on the fire.

she blames time.

for being the perfect thief. for being the ideal surrender.

the sour mercies time inflicts. the subtle virus of want. its mute screams constant. vague and absurd. a delicious starvation. awash in dramatic balconies and impotent fictions.

stolen honey. worn by the proxy. eager as we are. to be spent. anything to reinforce the structure.the shallow walls in the shadow of  the deep ceiling. paper negotiating the rain.  the cold in doses. the disantce like icicles.

it's years. it's minutes. they are the same. hollow rooftops from which we look down. a suicide of expectations.

the hour bursts open. a wolf with big eyes. a willing victim. every story is lived in flesh, but told in skeletons.

the wardrobe is casual. though the there are other rules. used in priority of creases. the distance is measured in confessions. and claw marks in the dirt.

the bones flaunt their dance. the flesh boasts its poetry. all the unspoiled rigors of desire in fractions of utopia.

the map doesn't listen. the route is obstinate. clever pinnochios undoing their strings.

there we are. all needles and threads. looking for seams in all the wrong places.

the colors. like symptoms of the disease. the moments like distant radio stations.

still she  struggles with the knot. skeptical of what it releases.

quiet volcanoes tame the friction.

the interrupted circuit. the composite man. all echo and thumbs. in creases familiar, but unnatural. tepid goddesses in their unicorn robes. discovering everyting. finding no one.

the electricity knows. energy accelerates. matter is enhanced. the shapes coalesce. stubborn attractions spoil the expermient.

the word is driven. the flesh is spent. the sober chaos. the high zen. borrowed, bled and bankrupt.

small gods construct their paradise in wine and cigarettes. the simple mistakes that once made us  whole. like hunningbirds and plastic soldiers. left out in the sun.

the war pauses. anticipating our surrender.

we screan, though gravity is deaf. we break, though impact is limitless.

equations. the simple monsters that define us. unresolved.

the edges overtake and the margins disappear. she follows the wind. as the cold whispers destinations. wearing the distance in scabs and antonyms. the hungry colors. the thirsty greys. the elegant madness of want.

all fire and sirens. and waiting for the folds to sink. an autonomy of despair. too quiet to ignore.

her wrinkled socks. her dirty underwear. spoiled matches in the seduction of the darkness.

it's never had a name. it's never been drawn on paper. the art that is grief. the symphony that is need. the angles strain and fail to reach. the shadows attempt to negotiate an impossible debt.

the moment is small. the tangents of gods stricken with humanity.  everything is borrowed. and all debts are eventually paid.


we were young once. we were paper. fragile, empty and omnipotent. we were small. swallowing the world in kicks and scratches. now we are old and gravity only tolerates us.

the leaves fall and we try to catch them. but there are too many.

tepid tornadoes boast their break from gravity. the sunrise scribbles like a crayon. smearing colors on the canvas her flesh pretends. all numbers. always a series. like pages. bent and barely read. the moment languishes in our stubborn apathy. all needles and thread. too loyal to ambivalent demons.

she breaks. pieces everywhere. she runs. quickly out of breath. the monsters attempting to translate lost bits of her humanity.

she says it's okay. because the scar is obedient. a little it of blood. and then it's hard again. nothing can penetrate.

the soul is all weights and measures. a series of shadows. each one divisible by the next. a contrary magician selling  empty tricks.

her voice is shattered. in a frantic resolve. her love is spent. quickly and without regard. in gold watches and used condoms.

the world ends behind closed curtains. lazy ladders stroke the heights. all soil on the playground. and the foul momentum of strangers. gorging themselves on the fantasy of life.

the cold comes suddenly. it always does. our world cuts and bends at every vertex. a paper playground. resisting the fold.

the steps take her. more than she takes them. soft scales bluff the weight. as we attempt to measure an impossible difference. contingencies of skin. the speed overwhelms. the height sickens. nervous hounds chew on the edge. the hunt is over. yet the the hunger persists.

the presumptuous where. the stubborn how. impotent magicians roiling in their illusion of progess.


the thirst confronts. she's gone too far she's certain.  the distance all static and urine. the hysterical numbers. the sober fractions. an indictment of choices. a conviction of skin.

the seldom monsters that slip into these empty clothes. loose knots negotiate the disease. soft scabs give up the infection.

impatient skeletons continue to peddle their impotent vaccines.