The organism is when. irrevocably evolving. the traffic is a kingdom. An aggregate of intentions.

asking us to choose. which darkness. and how deep into it we'll go. 

the distance followed. scarce and adamant. spent explosives in the renaissance of her discontent.

She went too far. Such is her nature. Desperate to tame the chase. Prove its incompetence.

 slake the thirst of time with empty buckets. 


every moment. all monsters and thieves. in their tattered sundresses. she negotiates the distance. in sober rations and drunken curves.

stab the wind and hope for blood.

The places changed. The roads forgot. the students of skin. the scholars of the heart. the disciples of if.

all of them were wrong. 

my broken dolls. their fragile plastic smiles. weightless anchors in the contagion of our discontent.

she paused. her voice thick with regret. paper bridges under the heft of the sun. pieces of the math. that sorts. the bones and the flesh. the little lies. and the big ones. all crimson and pus.

the uneven tableau of our voices. all the pulleys and levers that spoil the physics. the thrust of velocity. the recoil of spin. the perpendiuclar science of want.

merciless monsters bartering in flesh. lost kites and torn balloons in the ozone of our forfeit.

the cage. the sanguine crucifix of her consent.

no scale by which to measure. no map to indicate where. only the fortitude of the chase. and the shallow of her tears.

solvent hours in the millenia of her want. no flames. just ashes. the mystery of loss. the consent of gravity. the compromise of how.

just pictures. moments in their puddles. drying up. raw edges folded under. soft creases coming undone.

the distance in ribbons. all ripe scabs and sour blood. the bishop in the shadow of the king. poised to the rook. the truth is a strategy in a game of fiction.

the journey becomes us. a thunder of narrow bridges and a whisper of stop signs. in the confluence of capacity. numb fingers chewing on the wind. toothless predators gathering their poisons. the obvious autonomy of skin. still burning. like a blackened candle's wick.

the disease is a triumph. as bruised as it is arrogant.

all left turns and broken zippers.in the lingering cold.

the summer always comes slowly. yet it leaves so abruptly. 

the distance doesn't change. only the ways in which we measure it. our speed is constant. it's the terrain that varies.

time became. all vanishing points and crisis. shaky sketches in pastels and watercolor. the manic art of humility and surrender. like all love is.

shadows followed. relentless phantoms in the egress of her thoughts. miles unfolded. crisp and virulent. the fevered virus of life.

she took the turns. or so she thought. grieving in the creases of her tattered maps. touch a ratio. trust a constant. her math crumbling. a quiet inferno. all saltwater taffy and bitten fingernails.

the journey was. had always been. a treason of choices. all stale bread and paper cuts.

no hope of starvation. only the lingering famine.

her splintered scars. her creased resolve. stories unto themselves. her words. naked thieves. her choices. toothless saws.

perspective. it builds. in feeble increments.

the crushed template from which we derive our portraits.

perspective. it swells. like wooden bridges over shallow waters.

her hunger, like an open dress. her desire taut elastic.her loyalty all dead poets and arsenic. moments skipping rope. and tragedies feasting with their mouths open.

all those small monsters looking large. as they lean in closer.

perspective. it whispers of reason. while it screamss madness.

all its angles much too sharp.

the distance laughed out loud. an empty, roiling storm over a desert too arid to ever be quenched. the distance shivered. a naked child bereft of its mother's arms. throbbing in a curtain of hot tears as the miles thoughtlessly accrued.

the scenery stared back at her. as if she was there. swallowing her progress. in shallow cuts and dirty bandages.

the pull of the journey. sharp angles. blunt addictions. all the foul circumstance and tepid lectures any given moment can muster. the dubious philosophies of sour men and eager strangers. stilted embers in a dying fire. permanent creases in the confessions of touch. thin shadows pretending to know the sun.

in a world where geometry is a spoiled math. And choice is a failing science. we still like to believe in the wisdom of madness.

familiar paths maptheir geography in her sweat and exhaustion. the body is a brutal machine. sharp cogs. relentless pistons. powering a voracious engine. intent on going nowhere.

the distance withered under the cull of her stamina. farther haunts her. erupting ghosts focus their chains. vacant gravitys' tender their resignations. in corners. in arcs. in all the manic applause of desperation and hope.

she thought it far. but not such a  great distance. navigating the callous backdoor lovers keep.

she rode into the wind. taking its punches like medicine. no cure. just remission.

all those stunning cancers sleeping inside us. beautiful monsters romancing the hierarchy of fear.

flesh like traffic. stuck again. the architecture of distance erupting in used books and broken glasses. the borrowed reality of choice. the crippling temptations of when. all belt buckles and insulin. in hte diabetic frenzy that insists we are living.

the miles paused. ruled by hunger more than reason. the distance waited. still looking for the near.

she raged  against the distance. as it struggled  with her choices.

she drew her maps. lost. in a catastrophy of familiar intersections.