Sad Poems

Dominoes Stumbling

2012-01-28T00:46:00.003-05:00

Touch is a treason. In a war of the absurd. Her eyes like wounded soldiers. Her smile like grenades. We wear each other in sparse threads of skin. Toiling to undo the knots that keep us together.

her lips are summer. her face is winter. the seasons change us. but on them we have little effect.

i draw my boxes. the stale geometry of if. stumbles. caught in life's moist cement.

he listens to her breathe. inspired by the prescient cadence of her sleeplessness. ledges like gods. loud and arrogant. lovers like zippers. coming undone. teeth biting everywhere. there is an opening.

her monsters are small. easily swept up in her fury. the flames from dragon's jaws. Tentative. As they wait for that burst of water. The strangle of contrition that proves the darkness.

she tastes him. in furtive licks. stolen from the fist of ogres. she feels him in the pull of years. as the world pretends to discover its villains.

she closes her eyes. confesses. that it's too far away.

she grabs the zipper. And pulls down hard. disappointed when. they can still see her.

all of her poisons too weak.

Post Football Projects

2012-01-27T17:13:00.000-05:00

Guest post of the week by Val Flores

The Superbowl is less than two weeks away and the teams are decided. I could have told you back in September the Patriots would be in the big game but I wouldn’t have picked the Giants to go all the way. Although my wife is happy to have me available once again on Sundays, it’s hard to believe another season of NFL Sunday Ticket has already come and gone! Of course we have one more Sunday to go when we watch the Superbowl but after that it’s time to tackle the honey do list my wife has been making over the past few months. I’m sure there are quite a few small projects I can knock out in a couple of weekends but she has been pretty quiet on big projects. Although I’d like to think that means she doesn’t have one past experience leads e to believe otherwise. My guess is that she has something major she would like for me to do but she doesn’t want to hear me protest. I’m guessing the week after football is completely over supplies for the project will start showing up in the garage and once they are purchased I won’t be able to get out of it!

Sad Monster

2012-01-25T00:44:00.008-05:00

treble flames. point their dominoes. away from the sun. the pitch of gravity reveals. the parasite of confession. eager needles. punch the wind. their poison the only reason to keep climbing.

yellow like truth. sticky and sour with blame. blue like love. soft and foul. the porch door trembles. the glass in the windows shudders. laugh. let me fall. let me stumble and be of their ridicule. I am content to be laughed at by idiots and loved by madmen.

her stories tell her. child climbing ladders just shy of heaven. unaware that she's always been high enough.

skin like cataracts. adds to the blur. little piglets. brick houses. ripe to fall down. the words spill from her fingers. in a thunder of conditions. desert and cloud. like symphonies in her head. crack and multiply. until everything is red.

the nightmare befriends her. in small steps and fractures of bricks. the wolf breathes. in his quiet oppression. empowered with the sickness.

the creaking lantern. the faltering wind. the backdoor. the thin glass between lovers. That lets me see what they really want.

the sequence. the surrender. torn invitations. as her party goes on. without strangers. without friends. dense with the science of men. heavy with the friction of surrender.

as red as her choices. as blue as the voids they've left her with. her broken toys play with her. long after the bulbs are dead.

and the monsters we let live us. are all that they'll remember.

Broken Leashes

2012-01-22T01:11:00.004-05:00

prepare the wolf. soft swords. like fading memory. quiet floods. in the ripe of her arms. the beautiful girl. the ugly truth.

tell the story. in pink cheeks. and doubting arms. the whisper of right against the roar of wrong.

the shrug of the apple. more thread than needle. as it mends those holes.

let the monster inside. play the martyr. to wasted saviors. pressing the absolute. soft buttons. slender threads. work their way through the doll. in stiff smiles and frozen tears.

loud liars. befriend the battle. soft soldiers adjust the war. until everything is sober.

bad dogs. chewing on the bones we've left. stray gods dance on the strings of puppets.

Loose threads. for the monsters to pull on.

Theoretcial Communists

2012-01-22T00:05:00.002-05:00

numbers. thumbs. chimps.

the eye unfolding like an uncertain bridge. steps too close. edges scraping.

the light coughed. the dark chose. each one dying of the same disease. in different poses.

she drew him. smudges and pencil scars. paper swords. left in empty stones. to draw upon. in nervous floods of ink. the grin of distant stars. hungry ghosts. to color in blank faces. and try on fallowed skins. dead leaves. a mosaic of faces. reap. the hollow.

the pantomime continues. a whisper of madness. small comfort against the roar of mediocrity.

blunt gods. without their guns. waste their munitions. on similar corpses. fallen leaves. soften the edges of broken glass.

listening. deaf hours. blind years. still find us. wanting.

The Mechanics of Men

2012-01-18T23:57:00.005-05:00

she outgrew the math. like neanderthal. climbing laborious ladders. up to locked windows. down to empty cellars. the drudgery of numbers her only tether. as the world became helium. the pale gravity of men. weaker than she thought. as it all disappeared into the shrug of an indifferent atmosphere.

space.

making us large. feverish children sucking on the splinters of popsicle sticks.

space.

proving us small. in quiet confessions. scrapes of flesh. too lean to wear. thin crutches. bland surrenders. brighter than all this darkness.

the lion. his fangs on the sun. biting down. pretending he's not hungry.

time in pale reversals. games of checkers. spoil the board. as her king dances against the check. a stubborn devil on the perimeter of perdition. repairing the apple that was bitten. with the bones of orphans.

time wakes her up. ignites that soft inferno. boiling in her fist. she pets the wolf with one hand and cuts it open with the other.

the fairy tale becomes her. breadcrumbs in the forest. stale enough to follow.

the mechanics of men. uglier than she had anticipated.

Warp Factors

2012-01-16T00:48:00.004-05:00

time machines. like warm thighs and cold lips. hum on the thick of their gears. the world spins. a manic pinwheel ferreting breath from the tight choke of the wind. its tender noose spinning life from so many corpses.

the sidewalk painted pink. she's too old to know the difference. except that it's harder now. to sleep. to pretend the day is over and life has happened. that the dream is enough.

counting. the stoic arithmetic of cold sheets. names the bean stalk. as her jack descends. and the giant crashes. her beans still useless. time machines. like dull knives. on the thick skin of epiphany. she wonders. which came first. life or death. what makes them different.

This heavy marker in her hand. that blots out the ladder up. this broken pencil between her fingers. that stabs. at the treasures that were almost drawn.

this time machine with its plastic stare. waiting for her answer.

Delayed Immunity

2012-01-16T00:04:00.004-05:00

the world is always ending. on its toes. hungry. peering in at. the opulent feasts. of the powerful and the powerless. they are the same. always wanting. bluffing that they have.

sweet panties. dealt like cards. a steep ante to sit in on worthless hands.

waiting comes in bald exceptions. the dull blade gnawing on raw meat. the hunter kills, but refuses to prepare. the dead things to be consumed.

bitter candies melting in her hands. sweet enough to slow the clock. paint her palms in sour chocolate. a flood of intensity ripe with the wretch of imminent paradox. the thunder of patience. the stumble of weakness. pushpins in paper maps. stabbing at places unwilling to be found.

the fever on stilts. high above the disease. as if they are separate. the poison in small doses. bleeds a cure. and she bathes in the blood.

Fractions of Bliss

2012-01-13T00:14:00.005-05:00

Pause. Hold your breath. See if anything changes.

Jagged pencils. Point. Draw. Confess. That it's not enough.

She lends her face to an eager stranger. Wagering against his resolve. She plays her game of hopscotch with the obvious numbers. And unexpected stones. Winning a cold component to her plan.

To be.

Her life in shallow cuts. Little blood. For many wounds. The rabbit runs. Chasing its missing foot. Frantic to win a race that scarcely knows it's in it.

She listens to the monkey. As he confesses evolution. Every bone a treason. As she works her way inside the skeleton. To find the knot in the needle. that keeps her from coming undone.

Each hour a prism. Bent fingers. Pointing at. Brightly colored villains. Broken fists. Trying to hold onto. Fading rainbows.

The math overtakes her. And she struggles with the remainder.

Weightless Conditions

2012-01-09T00:21:00.003-05:00

the end doesn't come. it only finally wakes up. After a long debate with a lazy coma.

the words aren't mine. I only borrow them. from opiates and unprotected sex.

bluffing the seldom cartographers. that leverage their maps against the contingencies of dead skin. destinations far more resilient than the travellers that take their paths. or otherwise more willing to embrace the inherent weakness. of wanting. to change.

she scribbles. stabs of ink. open wounds. she had assumed were healed.

the liar. she is. was. must be. shouts. colors. conditions. cold beds. missing blankets. smothers. under the reflex of choice. that we can wait. so long. for what is never coming.

the ripe apple. in her grip. bruised. bitten. soured. by those that have tasted. the scrape of its gravity.

the weight of the earth rapidly approaching.

the science of salvation. feeble with the parameters of decision.

the fall is nothing. compared to what comes after.

Causality

2012-01-08T01:33:00.006-05:00

slight hurricane. pisses its puddles in our path. distance. in fevers. velocity in the depth of my sickness. the simple science of temptation. reveals its mazes. torn dolls. gather their bitten smiles. and their frayed faces. the quiet tick of clocks. at last discovering this scarred flesh.

arrogant metaphors. spoil her desperate pantomime. clowns drenched in the perfumed blood of martyrs. salient garden debating the sun. for a taste of the colors still too far.

the simple ropes. tossed stone. listless games. the smother. the allegory of waiting. tricks us. into thinking we are close. the bandage. thick with scabbing blood. tells time in pennies. but purchases it in dollars.

shouting at gods she knows are deaf.

Atomic

2012-01-06T23:54:00.003-05:00

decisions. like hydrogen atoms. choices are unstable. proximity suggests patience. experience has different data.

she moves. at the speed of her temptations. velocity is manipulated by mass. distance is distorted by the scale. measurement is merely the folly of comparing. Something small against that which is larger.

she breathes. in quiet fists. desperate punches that leave no bruises. hungry skin that chases. the brittle ghosts cast by broken corners. quiver. below the growing shadows of falling giants.

snatch the bullet from the cusp of her sleep. she tumbles. roiling in deference to the suspicion. that none of it is real. a lie to near to the truth. a plague. more than welcome.

the cold mercy of madness on missing sin. the calm conviction of broken scabs.

a drop of blood. a fraction of when. anything mattered.

kill the windows. tear away the curtains. condemn the glass. reason with the monsters. that the suicide is a work in progress.

Truthful Lies

2012-01-05T00:16:00.002-05:00

yellow windows surround her. naked. hurried. without anchor. adrift.

her world is flat. not spherical in the least. and she is always close to the edge.

gravity bickers with logic. if the world ends does it still apply. can she fall off. or will she just float. suspended there. in the timeless yawn of naught.

skin poses as years and begins to ask questions.

starts to count. the dirty tiles on the bathroom floor. as the hours vomit. high on the mechanics of how. weakness spills into salvation.

blue walls make a room. gentle. shivering. without a constant. the world is flat. and small. and shrinking fast.

i wake up inside her. the years a drought. the moment a flood. deformed by her faces. drowning in her masks.

small cuts build a roof. but the rain still finds its way in.

Permission to Cry

2012-01-02T23:57:00.004-05:00

awake. delicious monster. listening to the night snore. sweating asterisks.

\solved\

laugh. stale villain. dancing to the weep of darkness. trembling parenthesis.

/paused/

speak. raw child. learning to walk. on the rippling breath of circumstance. kicking commas.

fractions of god. perspire between her legs.

( red )

sleep. spoiled outcast. on the husk of memory. taken by choices. in a frenzy of question marks.

the scowl of contrition. broken worlds blossoming under her tongue. dense like the angles on a square. broad as the math that determines. how far I've wandered.

look. find them. filthy mirrors. that swallow the day. rusting scales. that weigh what is missing.

simple pin pricks. dull needles. knotted threads. pull on the holes. not trying to close them. but only attempting to make them smaller.

she is.

you were. remember.

the victim. the villain. the voice. the observer. watching the world sleep. a fortunate case of insomnia.

Patient Murders

2012-01-01T00:04:00.003-05:00

tunnels. ripe with the ritual. of pretending to change. passageways. take us in circles. chokes of skin. elaborate the dearth of her choices. the monkey scribbles in its book.

a bland surprise. another eclipse. the stumble. of hours. years. lifetimes. groping for a path. searching strangers. pissing on maps. resentful that there is no treasure.

the monkey draws his pictures. in ink. overwhelmed by the depth of his despair.

the Earth moves. sprints beneath us. taking us away from ourselves. in filthy fractions. time passes. dull teeth chewing on the crust. of stale bread. and we are hungry enough to believe it tastes good.

the monkey watches. his pen empty. his books read. wondering. how to differentiate between villain and victim.

he dances. caught in a redundant pantomime. the careless lurch of time. as it sucks the marrow from her bones.

the monkey paints. fingers swollen with color. trembling pictures. the monkey measures. quietly confronted. in scabs. how far we've travelled. to be forgotten.

Singularity

2011-12-31T00:31:00.003-05:00

doorways. memory's chapped thighs. spread. telling their stories in melted ice cream and vacant chairs.

places. words. lies. friction coefficients. velocity still undetermined.

she solves for gravity. though she knows that's working backward. and distance is still an unknown parameter. she assumes there must be a constant. though her need is the only evidence.

the weight confronts her. the density of skin betrays her bones. Lips like a zephyr. Eyes like a tornado. Every intimacy chafed raw. By the vigor with which we approach it.

stagnant lions. feral lambs. the curious commodity that once was her.

spent.

Little Girl In A Row Boat

2011-12-28T23:48:00.004-05:00

turn the corner of the flower. must find the corner first. the severe and isolated angle. that speaks only after it has been heard.

her stage eclipses her dialogue. the crude rudiments of touch. fail. as both a bridge and a measure. her scene echoes. soft footsteps prick the stage. pin holes in mountains. a rowboat upon the ocean.

wearing her eyes backward. she looks at the choices. the smothering depths which inspire. both greatness and despair. she searches the mire. for the arrogant fulcrums in this dubious balancing act.

creasing the paper. drawing an invisible map. the child. the woman. a blade of grass vying for a single ray from the sun. the science of life. in a panic of whispers and stabs.

what she wants overtakes her. the grunt of decision spoils the garden. what she was is lost.

pieces of a mirror afraid to look.

Proximate Mechanics

2011-12-28T00:16:00.006-05:00

listen to the vein. silent curtain. deaf bridge. between need and want. critical stranger. under the skin.

if i could build a time machine i wouldn't need to. that is the paradox.

a bite of shame. a chew of submission. barefoot on cold ceramic. the sway of the tiles underfoot. as the Earth exhales.

position is relative. duration inherent. the wind bends as she walks into the storm. a perpetual clock. Always at the beginning. Always at the end.

the hours manipulate. tensile puzzles. beat the sand. manias of mortality. sway to the music of addicts. in floods of ink. in wrinkles of when. all that now is real refracts. is splintered under the scrutiny of distance's dead stare.

she rights her tilting dolls. envying their plastic limbs. frozen fingers. still cradling what was never there.

I have this time machine.

I just don't know what to do with it.

Double Slit Effect

2011-12-26T00:16:00.004-05:00

on broken broomsticks. in dusty closets. the pantomime. the earthworm. naked without the soil. context shifted. rhythm compensates. we don't know why. it's this easy to forget. we just trust that the changes will improve us.

the paradigm and the stimulus collude. the results are near. the observer is distant. and nothing else can be accurately measured. where we began. where we've ended up. the path that took us from there to here. gradations on the faulty scale. flesh uses to determine the weight of touch.

the lie will tell itself. all we have to do is let it.

moments manifest. objectifying spontaneously around the situations we've created for them. rain falls up to the sky. choices construct their questions. we go backward. stealing the butterflies from caterpillars. calling them defective.

ugly. ambient conduction. fluid entropy. solvent to the flaws of strangers. reacting to the litmus of lovers. an empty experiment. proving nothing.

Pottery Wheels

2011-12-24T00:31:00.004-05:00

blank lips sweat the lies. perspective. the smallest cuts leave the biggest scars. texture. the friction of silence. her last bridge. wheezes. hiccups above. roiling waters hardly charmed. by the pontifications of humbled madmen. the swagger of their empty dicks.

arrogant pauses. mete out the addiction. in trembles so soft she barely knows how much she needs what she's never had.

portals. the fever of when. sickens her pursuit of tomorrow. with past infections.

it's clay. we are. spinning. sticky. malleable. dense. turned into and turned by. and turning with. the orbit of lazy moons. shaped. strained. convinced. that there is a definition. for the things we cannot name.

spies. soldiers. flags. the breaths between battles become the definition of the war. we are winning. because all else is lost.

long strands confess their knots. sweet candy houses bargain with orphans. soft tangles keep lovers near. a lengthy trail of breadcrumbs behind. a longer path ahead.

skin like levers. catapults. weapons. immune. to the strum of gravity. as it orchestrates her fall.

Downpours

2011-12-23T00:26:00.004-05:00

first came the body. frantic with flesh. an abundance of protons. clowns twisting skin into absurd shapes. an autopsy of emotions.

the prison absolute. the crime mutable. the atom excited. the child asleep.

then come the sobs. saline life rafts. to decorate the drowned. the ritual. the compulsion. to love what has been lost.

sour fruit. gives it a name. impotent predator. spoiled by its former fangs. the rush of regret. too quiet. scribbles its notes. at the base of her spine. infects each step. every taste enumerated in the telemetry of her flesh. small holes. expanding. a microscopic choke of darkness evolving to blot her out.

the hours bend to fit. eager monsters. wagging tongues. dull claws. artists carving life from the stones that mark the corpses.

the division is long, though the moment is brief.

then came the ghost. the nucleus. exposed. empty for lack of its mask. futile. inert. haunting. the same places it always had. flesh or ether. no difference. the particles unchanged. the rain. in steady downpours. each drop smaller than the last.

Portioning the Scab

2011-12-21T01:03:00.004-05:00

static. pale abundance. screams at the actors. is silence for the audience. she told me to wait and i did. wait. high on the eventual. sober with the circumstance. her Pinocchio danced. wooden and awkward. as the play went on without us. a sheer curtain all that separated broken toys from paradise.

an old wizard. lacking in magic. drew the outline. a courtesy of touch. purchased in haste.

she tried to wake him. warm matches. tease the memory of a fire. too weak to give it life. she tries on the math. touch in long division. remainders desperate to recover their fractions. time colors in the gentle farts of butterfly wings.

we are lost. in the stench. of all the places that took us close. but failed to let us in.

Why We Laugh

2011-12-20T00:12:00.007-05:00

names. like chalk. erased, but hardly gone.

she would stay awake. to reason with the numbers. giving each one a name. stubborn little pigs. blaming the wolf for the flaws in their houses.

faces. on the tips of her fingers. spilling. slipping away. a cascade of years. disappearing into a long series of unresolved equations.

flesh. like thread. choices like needles. lost in the seamless revisions time has imposed.

he would talk. like no one could hear. but everyone was listening. content in the slow suicide of his loneliness. not ready to die. but more than willing to let it happen.

tomorrow was ours. bought and paid for. except for the fact that it doesn't exist.

we are desperate. we take what we can. and lie about the rest.

hares racing the tortoise.

whispering fairy tales shouting at their ghosts.

distance she's determined is measured in trust rather than years.

Subtracting Poets

2011-12-18T00:18:00.003-05:00

vultures. labia. elective skins.

elements of when. molecules coalescing. dominant juxtapositions. tear her apart. to fit inside. give her a name. no one else calls her.

the math is in her thighs. the result is anywhere else.

you there she whispers. forgive my blindness. words are despots. sight is a stranger. let me feel you. touch your face. so that i may see. what physiology neglects.

it's all pretend until the we break each other. shovels. hammers. picks. fingernails on skin. tearing open. hollow boxes.

love is for women and liars. she says. adamant in her convictions. the rest of us have only that one moment. when the math was pure. and the numbers still belonged to us.

dandelions. suffering the breath of a wish.

frail gods. choking on their Edens.

Auctioning the Bean Stalk

2011-12-16T00:29:00.005-05:00

outlines. needles. faces. the deviance of numbers is not to be contained. she is found in her lostness. she is loud in her silence. a proton. teasing the template of physics. with short numbers and long division.

paper plates. a feast of conditions. betray my hunger. the more i swallow the greater the intensity of my starvation.

rubber bands. plastic forks. spoil their lovers. with choices. close. haunted by the pale suicide of a stranger's touch. or distant. content beside them in the solitude of the grave.

he says i was. but i don't remember her. child. writhing in trembles of touch. a circus of skin. eager to impress.

i can recall the clowns. and the animals. time travels through her. a dull dagger. drawing its picture in blood. i recognize the monsters. but still don't know their names.

Higgs Boson

2011-12-15T00:41:00.003-05:00

terminal. temporal. contrite. stillborn hours. premature years.

i watch the night undress. stitch by stitch. its skin is exposed. blank. oedipal. dead particles. excited by broken atoms.

she asks when. i answer now.

a redundant game of cat and mouse. still charmed by the hunt.

distorted. nervous. in the rush of revision. bean stalks and giants. thundering footsteps. tremors in the atmosphere. like breath redolent of lovers. bleeding through. from the time before we met. the choke of distance. stifles our breath. as we surrender to the kiss.

close to the end. closer still to the beginning.

skeleton wings. stab the wind. no flight. no names. only the places below us. once so small. getting bigger.

Counting From Zero

2011-12-13T00:32:00.007-05:00

bled. discarded. determined. the huff of thick scars. they scrape the when. as it tries to remember what is better left forgotten.

the battle. the sword. the dead. merely the vessel. for a much larger struggle. the season. the change. steps in the path to the edge.

the drop so steep. it dwarfs how high we are. the flesh is an ambivalent story. the skeleton reluctantly narrates.

holes much deeper. than they seemed from the surface.

the texture of if. like burlap and cognac. the sweet tenacity of friction. as it extracts flesh from ghosts. and finds the humanity in sex.

turning lives into stories. simple gods trying on their gowns. afraid to dance. knowing the music of touch is brief. and the science of men is fickle.

soft surrenders. lean hard. into the arms of the abyss. charmed by the principle of its uncertainty.

Thieving their moments. From shallow cuts. To infinity's throat.

Sleeping Bridges

2011-12-12T00:23:00.004-05:00

soldiers. dogs. good-bye laughs. stiff. apparent. awkward. in its highest heels. banter and bark. and dying trees. too tall to blame.

minutes to become us. years to tinker with. what we were.

guns. bark. cries the wolf. soft. emollient. arrogant. in its shortest skirt. liars and trials. the skin is evidence. the moment is wager. the gamble is taken. too often.

woodsmen. witches. soft and creased on the shoulder of the shadow. the fable too heavy. the flesh too thin.

the fairy tale is thick with risk. sacrifice. and fear. the lesson is dark with blame. we are all guilty. of waiting. for change to happen.

straw. sticks. brick. harder. emptier houses.

for all our crutches.

they still fall down.

we are all children in our stories. and old in our skins.

a puzzle of moments. that almost fit.

Contentious Variables

2011-12-10T00:26:00.003-05:00

she takes us apart in stutters of skin. spoiled by the terminal concept that is connection. folds in paper devils. cautiously map the treasure. buried too deep.

high on the velocity of indifference. she puts me back together. with a stab and a wink. sex like cellophane. hisses and cracks against the friction. of our stilted trust. muted. defiant. stubborn.

as ugly as she wants me to be. as beautiful as I've ever seen her.

foul panties. worn by the flood. say nothing. just breathe. their deaf songs. broken feet stumble the sun. tripping on their blindness. the sweet fruit of her lips. now rotten.

choices like scales. absorb the weight.

years like gravity. play the last of her threads.

Perpendicular to the Average

2011-12-08T00:32:00.007-05:00

you took the color. turned it inside out. so only the black heard. only the white saw. everything in between them. infinite and useless.

long tunnels. dense nightmares in the wrench of drugs. i wanted to wake up. but the hole was ink. and the surface only paper.

her touch. a whisper of sleep against an army of insomnia.

we dug those graves. bitten fingernails our only shovels. we drew the smiles on those cadavers. picking scabs to get the paint.

we let the rain fall. each cloud our own. nurturing every storm.

counting backward. building the machine. in stumbles and punches. chewing on the edge of the abyss.

stubborn angles. betting on friction.

a fool's roulette. artfully refracted in a prism of causality.

Darning Needles

2011-12-06T00:13:00.004-05:00

time. practical poisons.

the flight of touch. the turbulence of skin.

rabbit's feet and turtle necks. the piety of luck. poker chips and penny loafers. the risks in not taking them.

that little house. wide open. yet unaffected. by the wind or the rain. a mouse trap missing the bait. that heavy face. colorless and silent. no expression. a puzzle without edges. practical poisons. darkening the outlines on those villains.

as if the world sleeps beside us. in quiet fits. an eager lover. a seldom friend. too lazy to love us. too selfish to leave.

time was. life is. a practical poison. waiting on us. to decide. how much.

ragged dolls. sewn on smiles. a frenzy of stitches. and so many threads to pull on.

Common Senses

2011-12-04T00:25:00.004-05:00

swells the stem. the flower not withstanding. incursions. of the temporal kind. we remain young in our heads. but grow old in their eyes.

for all the miles we'll travel. for all the machines we'll construct. as far as we can go. we still end up in this place.

greasy pistons. simple moving parts. in a complex and thoughtless machine.

brush strokes. isolated swatches of paint. small drops of color. in an elaborate and empty landscape.

burns the match. rapid and devout. drawn to the consumption of fire. everything is the same. it either leaves us behind or else it devours.

tells the doll. fingers sewn to the dark. gentle lies. barely enough to press the button. on idling engines. deaf gods. that see our prayers. but cannot hear them.

Staggers the Sun

2011-12-02T00:11:00.003-05:00

stubborn fruition. bold blankets. work the folds. eliminating the extraneous permutations. angry monkeys beat the ground. with big sticks. Erroneously assuming someone is listening.

turtles give their speeches. arrogant amphibians discard their shells. playing to the race they've already won.

simple things. turn ugly. monsters unmasked. but they were always there. so how to stop loving them.

matter is mutable. entropy gives chase. change is a factor. decision is a tempting variable. but we are helpless.

thieves caught in the cycle of entitlement. dry river beds. simple gods. overcome. by the devils we've created. to prove ourselves.

entropy. the thrust of darkness. colors her wounds. traces her scars. discovers all those pieces. brighter still. for the decay.

Enviable Capacitance

2011-11-30T00:15:00.003-05:00

numbers. templates. paradigms for culpatory conditions. origami swans. their necks broken.

the bulk correlation divisible by the mass of conjunction. candy hearts. all their words rubbed off.

permutation. obvious follies. hypocrisy in prevalence. rusted zippers. on the backs of men.

ambulatory resonance. impatience. perfunctory incisions. simple scissors cut the atom.

places weep. sparse drops of rain. taste the glass. in uneven cuts. that separate moment and momentum. windows sharp. peel the scabs. that differentiate hope and madness.

proximity plays it song. a weak minstrel with a sour smile. laughs out loud how close we are. deep in deserts frequented by ghosts.

she walks in apologies. kneeling mountains. and plastic suns. wait for the world to stop. are lost each night it continues to function.

she fucks in wishes. Genies trapped in their lamps. lace panties torn by fat asses.

Pencils with no erasers left. Scribble answers to questions no one asked.

The world is small. like we are. And it counts out loud. Like we do. So as not to lose track. Of long division. And balloons without strings. All the possibilities. That blot out what is real.

Momentum

2011-11-29T00:26:00.004-05:00

yellow. green. blue. colors spill from her like death. there is no life. only beginning. middle. end. a violent short story. told by despots and orphans.

bridge. traitor. champion. they are all the same. a pace from paradise. miles from satisfaction.

the road travels her. in fits of distance. both brief and bright. broken thumbs teasing the trigger. on empty rifles. the shot rings out. as loud as it is impotent. a scream of skin. on a collision course with touch.

episodes of choice. flirt with how. red. black. brown. there is no living. just minutes stolen. from youth's tightly clenched fist.

time sickens her. an intrinsic illness. her head suffers the symptoms. her body feigns a cure.

broad wires pull on limbs. thick lights attempt to conceal. the illusion is stalwart. piano keys striking broken cords. continue to play their song. the truth is lenient. wet paper dolls still hold on to each others' hands.

real is relative. an army of candles. consumed by a single flame.

Correspondence Principle

2011-11-26T23:59:00.003-05:00

suspended elements. rage. tumble. boom. gloat. in lengths of blunder.

peaches. plums. wisdom. everything begins in the dirt. and also ends there.

long ropes. short branches. keyholes in the atoms. smaller than the smallest piece. are still bigger than us.

notes on the princess. still hide in the pea.

puzzles. places. when. empty dungeons. inherit their prisoners. from dusted vampires. and vanquished demons. yet all of those dead monsters are always born again. in the relentless pace of hunger. as it stutters through the trenches in this skin.

the switch stays off. the bulbs remains dark. though there is friction enough. to ignite the spark.

moments. the squeal of colliding atoms. as they form the worlds we imagine exist. heavy tomes. rich with stories. of seldom heroes. and the gods they trusted. would keep counting. after we'd lock track of them.

needles. knots. thread. humble with the chaos. of changes. armor. swords. castles. swallowed up in the turbulence of the math. a sequence of numbers. infinite with ends.

Cohesion

2011-11-26T00:17:00.004-05:00

places. folds. conditions of when. small shadows. in the clench of the mountain. try to sound big.

the cavity. churns. its echo dissonant to its depth. the wind murmurs. as it seizes the edge.

one pill is poison. the other is life. they taste the same. they look alike. they are identical. in every way. except. one kills you quickly. the other one is slower.

gardens grow. wolves growl. clouds weep. faces to try on. tasting the sweet hunger of strays. swallowing the bitter sate of urgent skin. slivers of glass. to measure our progress.

she said she would remember. the way back.

through the tall trees. that block the heaven's generous maps. through the thick mud. that steals the evidence of her steps. but none of it looks familiar. and all her breadcrumbs have been eaten. by hungrier creatures.

Friction Coefficients

2011-11-24T00:37:00.004-05:00

do I know you? she asked. from her side of the mirror.

which of us is the reflection? the other one wondered.

there's no real difference. the glass professed.

dud matchsticks. that refuse to ignite. torn treasure maps. for sunken islands.

when was I here? she questioned. asleep in the folds of her obsession. ugly little duckling. mortgaged to the cost of its feathers.

how thin is the edge. the friction of ghosts. fatally agile. against the haunt of surrender. the delicate moan of submission. scrapes hard. through. the viscous treason of when.

All my voices betray. The slick of distance convinces angels. Broken ribbons and hollow boxes. Are a stairway to heaven. All my faces are only reflection. Fat parasites gorging on a stale feast of flesh.

wide awake. alive in the impotence of her rage. used matchsticks. pretending the fire.

Mirror. Mirror. She whispers.

Am I there yet?

Urgent Monkeys

2011-11-22T00:00:00.004-05:00

small openings. long tunnels. the end boasts. popcorn thighs and candy trousers. the flesh of witches upon which to feast.

the dead. the deader. the difference between them teeth. the bite of apathy. the chew of starvation. open boxes. thick with nothing. a marathon of paper cuts. a ceremony of bandages. no blood.

quiet trains. gentle lies.

the end of the world comes in blinks. a silent ambush. slowly going blind. first everything far disappears. and eventually. even the things closer.

the war wears her. in ill-fitting sweaters. in jeans too tight. she dances. to the music. of absent lovers. a rabbit racing against a tortoise. the battle befriends each soldier. eager orphans. nursed on the teat of the gun.

big funerals. small caskets. the cadavers try us on. the dizzy of open dresses. the lilt of tensing zippers. at the bottom of the rope. the end of the world in hiccups.

a tense recital of skin. as she insists the stage.

small storms possessed with big floods.

Four Walls

2011-11-20T00:54:00.000-05:00

the room. dense. with the ceremony of skin. blunt hounds. eager to fetch.

touch is a cumbersome companion. a soft clay stick figure. struggling with the bricks in its chest. a drought in the mind. resentful of the flood in our flesh.

the room. crude walls drawn. in torn dresses and broken toys.

a thirst. that's never quenched.

a rumble of choice. a quake of contrition. time like feast. taste like famine. life a poison.

she chews on the petals. dead flowers. fevered treasure maps. the calm of the paradox betrays her indifference. curtains drawn on dark windows. the room. still certain in its hunger.

a story told. often repeated. empty fists. spoil the glass. pointing. content to look in. carelessly. browsing. purchasing its depth. for a place to drown.

Polarity's Opinion

2011-11-19T00:18:00.004-05:00

terminals. elements. soft blades. broken by hard flesh.

they are drawn by her. in thin outlines. she rarely colors in. candy hearts missing their text. though mostly she traces. trying to imagine. how big the picture migh have been. were the margins not so narrow.

flower petals in dirty pockets. finite constructs choke. Trying to swallow. Their tiny portion of the world.

atoms. quarks. particles. naked science. blind observers. Taint the results. By being there.

faces. simple puzzles. impossible to solve. memory. every answer creates a new paradox. she draws on them in permanent marker. and leaves the cap off.

gelatin. the fate of discarded bones. to make dense these flippant ghosts. that frequent the thin membrane between self-awareness and insanity.

warm sheets. thunder through her skeleton. empty locomotives. lost without the guidance of skin. cold pillows. work their math. long division. remainders. paper knives stabbing the wind.

pieces of an infinite world. blame the puzzle inside her.

Sulphur

2011-11-18T00:22:00.003-05:00

little black ducklings. in between tuxedos. dance naked for their documentary. ugly is the new beautiful.

she digs her tunnels. narrow passages through the dense oblivion of time. counting backward from zero. until there is something positive.

she picks at the gear shift. teases the clutch. pleasure is a highway. skin a vehicle. the distance between too great to measure.

they point at her. long bent fingers. sticks and stones. left in the grass. After the windows are broken. And the bruises faded. she was yesterday. long needles. stuck on knotted threads. the wind and the rain rushing in. while the years escape.

simple equations. the arithmetic of lonely men. like checkerboards. Sliding bishops Trusting the rook to finish the slaughter. the war is fought in the squares. not the men.

dry matches. confess her. in fires yet to come.

she burns.

quietly.

until there is nothing left.

Doppler

2011-11-16T00:11:00.003-05:00

patterns. soldiers. clay fists. foil daggers. forward. closer.

we look behind us and the prison is open. freedom. we move forward. nearer to escape. the bars constrict. keeping us in our cages.

the nervous arithmetic of lovers. calculates the division of pleasure. each moment is a whore. flirting with the causality of contrition.

nameless gods. powerless deities. pissing out their puddles of heaven.

no eyes. just touch. to draw this room. bend the glass. to build these walls. an array of paper dolls. adrift in arteries of sober.

the edges trust. misleading equations. that we appear close. fools the tendons, but not the numbers. the skeleton is soft. to compensate for the rigid math. we move. forward and back. the repetition serving as the only constant as the variables erupt.

she scribbles in crayon. tender veins on plastic arms. like the wilt of drugs to seldom hearts. she marks in ink. heavy bones in hollow flesh. the thunder of want weak against the whisper of touch.

hours pushing forward. as the years constrict. time's bitter solvent. undoing all evidence of her progress.

so small. it hurts.

Teeth

2011-11-14T23:45:00.004-05:00

she swims in a river of stones. no waves. no bottom. she just floats. all of her momentum stolen by its density.

one skin falls away. she lives for a moment. before another quickly grows over.

her scent. the allure of her chase. her skin is flower petals. sick with a swarm of bee stings.

there is reach. fast and sharp. the grip of darkness's bony hand. holds her head. as she drifts. in her heavy gravel ocean.

she swallows the predators. small angles become her. the anatomy of purgatory is illustrated in her vagina.

small crayons. drawing on paper arms. lost with their cardboard faces.

her taste. deaf parasites. dancing to the symphony of her flesh. a frenzy of zippers. quick to bite closed. just as quick to open again.

Applied Physics

2011-11-13T00:23:00.006-05:00

i could crawl. over their graves. tiny tempests raging in the microcosm of when. the satire was more than this thin blanket of flesh. across the the voids. dragging eternity behind me. a little mud on my palms. a few scrapes on my knees. otherwise unchanged.

a teapot left to boil on the stove. screeching for years. in a vacant kitchen.

i could dig. picking at the edges with a broken spoon. drawing worlds in fading markers. confessions. stubborn wormholes. Let the strays in. To shit on the steps.

Drowning myself in the pretext of measured margins. gathering my dirt. into handsome piles. defined by the paradoxes. that correlate want and decision.

a single mosquito bite. one small sting. confirms every itch.

the soil spreads between her fingers. the flaunt of conduction. the parody of inertia. numbers stern with the promise of skin. time dense with the weight of touch. struggles to move on our brittle crutches.

she bites her tongue. the years released filling her cheeks. turning them shades of blue and red. ripened. bargaining with gravity. for one more moment. like fruit too long on the tree.

Kerosene

2011-11-12T00:16:00.004-05:00

say your name. with eyes like bark. a voice like leaves. a forest of one. in an infinite winter.

gravity's pale combustibles fail to spark. her fall is mute. a stale revision. of a hollow scream.

draw your map. with hands of glass and lead thumbs. a singular path. in a universe full of places.

chew on the engine. motion a constant. forward or back the question. threads of skin. whispers of combustion. jolt the turbines. muscle. memory. desire. all the components function. still the machine as a whole. only idles.

trust the moments. variables. that drive the differential. confess. concede. provide the inputs. accept their division. their outcomes creates us.

the empty jacket. the shadow it casts on the chair near the window. it pulls on the curtain with zippered fingers. metal teeth bite down hard on the void. the light plunges inside. fracturing the glass where she kept all her colors.

she chokes and gasps. overcome by a deluge of instances. soft strands of math bore their nails. skin like hammers. drive them in.

years assemble. in crooked ladders and low ceilings. the destination is built. but the journey collapses.

Tertiary

2011-11-10T00:28:00.004-05:00

instances. between the planes. curious thieves examine the empty space. arcs. beyond the curve. footless rabbits pace on their stumps.

pebbles scrape her palm. as she throws for her turn. simple games. complicated rules.

suckling pigs. in the shadow of angry sows. butchers' blades. dull, but effective. very little blood. plenty of squeals.

ends. neither the sum. nor the parts. the product of zero is always zero.

vertices. trip over each other. the shapes press onward. the infinity of flesh becomes her. small steps closer to the edge. a tickle of gravity to send her over.

a quiet drizzle. vagaries in the measure of touch. discrepancies. in the weight of when. the fractured arithmetic of redemption. always has remainders.

Potent Variables

2011-11-08T23:55:00.004-05:00

wounded monsters. don't bleed. but the pain is there.

the shuffle. the shudder. blood's daily marathon. stretches and tugs. at the ogres asleep in those distant corridors. so weak. so tender. more frail than any victim. since this puzzle fell apart.

skin's thick cape. flutters in the wind. one last desperate leaf at the beginning of winter. still feigns that its tree isn't dead.

fragments. puzzle pieces play their images. whispers of when. rhythms so alike how. the whole once echoed. frantic and diligent. soft eyes drawing their stalwart maps. in the dense murk of missing skins.

you are here. all the signs confess. where you always are. where you've never been. the difference between them only a fraction of a kiss.

he's fragile now. and so far away. an ocean. in the distance. blindly crashing into the stern arms of the darkness. each repetition breaking him into smaller shards.

she scratches. still filling in. the outline deeply embedded in her. chasing the colors that made it real once. but they run so much faster than she can.

slipping inside those old dresses. she finds comfort in the stiff hem of the paradox.

that when she was at her smallest they barely fit.

Solving For X

2011-11-06T00:02:00.004-04:00

static. transition. barren trees. bony fingers grabbing at the sky.

choices. temptation. old women. studying the blurry maps drawn in their heads.

i reason with the numbers. though they seldom reason with me. long distances expressed in fractions. a lifetime down to a decimal place.

fragments. division. the tinny flush of surrender as the drug finds her center. the angles within. so sharp. even the math is lost.

the hours. stray dogs. monarchs of skin. smelling the scars. gorging on the diseases.

rapid. profuse. feral. the time machine coughs. spitting us out into a world where we hardly belong. its engine foul with the madness of choice.

a paradise thick with the corpses of strangers. it breaks down. stranding us here.

in this dank garden. caught between who we were and who we are.

The Temperature of Sorrow

2011-11-04T23:59:00.006-04:00

envious shadows chase their tails. the wall. the window. the stairs. a perpetual conundrum. their proximity paradox. their relationship crucial. to everything she is.

measured in potency we are infinitesimal. burning matches briefly molesting dead leaves.

she sleeps on her side. so she can see it when her eyes first open. the breadth of the world. as it weakly blinks into existence.

the lion and the monkey. they bicker over how long the winter is.

the cold just listens.

she sleeps on the edge of the bed. so she can be close to falling.

the nail and the hammer. argue over the reality of hell and heaven. while the princess and the witch. debate the distance between them.

the cold just listens.

Zero

2011-11-04T00:47:00.003-04:00

consumed by the quiet. soft numbers too close together. the sequence expands. multiplying and dividing. until all integers are captured. the delicate of the addition. coaxes her sympathy for the sickness. the flagrant of the subtraction burdens with suspicion. that the cure is only a gentler incarnation of the virus.

the moment lives and dies by these repeating patterns. One. Twelve. Seven. Four. The sequence confounds. Beginnings obese with ends. Flesh is numbers. Touch is algebra. I confess that I can't solve.

stranded on the bridge. testing those devils. as their claws attempt the math.

choices. like wet paper. drowning in words i can't make out.

limbless dolls. Naked and all too patient. Spoil their plastic skins defining zero. in the only way that they can.

By the shiver of a cigarette as it illuminates an empty bedroom. where strangers fitfully sleep. In an epiphany of zeroes. molesting dolls in numbers that remain.

Quantum Mechanics

2011-11-02T00:32:00.005-04:00

stale faces. rotten fists. missing eyes. where they once saw me. absent lips. in the void where the words used to pretend. in their world. in hers, his, ours and mine. it takes a massive army of lies to defend just a small patch of flesh.

i used to sleep on the mountain tops. tickling the bellies of the hunting hawks. now i just lay awake. staring at empty skies.

the hour stretches. bends to comply. because i fell asleep inside my time machine with the motor running. i'm always there. i never was. the difference merely desire. i assumed the cat dead inside the box. until i took off the lid and got scratched.

then it stopped working. left me stranded on this island. too tired to erect a new bridge. too ugly to persuade the math to give me a new passage.

the monsters know the choices. tandem tiers revolve the axis. skin like warfare. eyes like machine guns. and right as frivolous as grenades. everything is stark. blindness is my gift. as i reach out. not knowing what i'll grab.

my stories bark their treasons. in fits of when and stabs of how. wire saws across the throats of soldiers. as the war chokes forward. and its battles sink harder into my bones.

i'm only a fraction. eyes like decimals. defer to the whole. a bit of friction on the gears. as the machine shifts. time races. touch surrenders. a tapeworm in the gut of the universe. swimming in its shit.

Pyrrhus

2011-10-31T00:01:00.004-04:00

colors. like fever. the ink spreads away from the bottle. for it those walls are only a suggestion.

the candy house. the woodsman. needles to thread. orphans. temptation. abandon. patterns to follow. the story telling us.

once upon a time she laments.

the woods. the basket. the wolf. the curious percussion of surrender. plucking at shoulders.

she sinks deeper. into the soil. walking in place. footprints quickly become trenches.

she imagines herself liquid. but it's not the same. her confines are not external. they lie within.

naked dolls. tempting Satan.

the glass breaks. malevolent in its determination. to taste the sun. rotting wood. dusty curtains. battles won. in a war without victors.

the apple sours. turns brown. once it is bitten. but that first sweet taste of its poison remains inside her. ink under her skin. spreading. filling her with pictures. of a room without windows.

a place. where walls are still enough.

Empathy for Disguises

2011-10-30T00:30:00.005-04:00

where the eyes are. watching pebbles shout at the ocean. when the chance is. listening to songs stab the wind. smaller and smaller. until even the rage is only a whisper.

casual encounters. intimate exchanges. ripe fruit. bruised skin.

life is a long conversation with a series of strangers. living is learning to listen to them.

all of her crutches are tender. willing to bend. each of her monsters have names. that she's given them. friends she knows must betray her.

the broken squares. as the stone falls. fits of distance beguile proportion. depth makes us small. measure proves us large. stubborn ghosts. slick with stolen skins. open their zippers. we could go inside. or we could let them come out to us. we could lay as we always have. stiff and rigid and insisting that we are more than these hours that pursue us. but either way we'd be liars.

the sway of trust. a pendulum. keeps counting. long after we've given up on. these hollow costumes.

Through The Woods

2011-10-28T00:30:00.005-04:00

black balloons. fragile strings. she tastes like yesterday. stiff with the arrogance of seldom lovers.

fingertips and eyelids. the molecules play their games. spurious wagers. that rarely have a winner.

the beginning. sweet candy houses. gentle axes. cut the hours from the bellies of wolves. the middle. dense forest. hungry witches. taste the children. the end. empty ovens. the stench of survival spoiling our desserts.

it's too long ago to still see that path. those breadcrumbs out of the forest. defer to the darkness.

the edge of the story is where it's sharpest. so we linger there. arguing with both ogres and princes. about the archetype of the victim. and the nature of the villain. sour with equations that mark both as irrelevant.

time is soft. much softer than science insists. it bends. it stretches. adapting its tumors to fill our holes.

we become our diseases. small infections flourish. we open our picnic baskets. ready to be eaten.

Flint

2011-10-27T00:23:00.005-04:00

the chase subsides. stale cunts chew on withered men. the last leaf of autumn. the dying tree won't let go of.

every night the world ends. every morning it's born again. in shattered dolls. limbs everywhere. fingers. toes. heads. a flower petal caught in the first breath of winter.

so the chase continues. the dead beating their chests to feign a heart. the living sucking on that shattered glass.

life measures us in stabs of when. and the scabs that insinuate we knew. how far we'd go to get that close. to people we could never know.

flesh ripe. adamant ghosts. bones. a skeleton of matchsticks. friction solves the riddle. spark. ignite. burn.

the smallest corners. hold the biggest secrets.

it isn't living until it hurts.

Unexpected Origins

2011-10-23T23:53:00.005-04:00

context. it puts us in places we've never been. it sends us back. to where the light still struggles to penetrate. scratching outlines into dark chairs where we linger. meteing out colors we never imagined were there. a frenzy of mosquito bites. making us real when all i want to be is pretend.

the hole that i fell into was dug by people long before i came to exist.

tight pants. created a waterfall of flesh. wrinkled pockets. pushed against empty fists. the easy remedy of scorn seemed appropriate. rage was the ideal coping mechanism. it tends to make everyone seem small.

i wore what didn't fit. stretching the shadows to cover the wagers. of tiring pendulums. shrinking myself to compensate for the deficit. of so many years. like paper cuts. deep wounds that draw no blood.

the sour came in down pours. brief, but effective. sealed boxes. full of her future. and she had no idea which one to pick.

shallow cuts are most effective. hurt is measured in duration. it takes years before you know that you've been. by the time you find out, it's too late to blame anyone other than yourself.

i was so desperate for anything sweet. the beehive seemed a perfect place to reach in and grab.

but the honey was sour. and after so many years of numbness. i barely felt the stings.

Aggressive Margins

2011-10-22T00:53:00.005-04:00

smaller still. the aperture. the lens is if. the focus is how. the photograph taken is us. heavy with the onus of empty picture frames.

stagnant shades of grey. ripe with the poignant humanity only addiction dares to tell.

fraction of when. the weak equations of touch betray the labors of skin.

the stairs climb her. she bends to accommodate their footsteps. sharp angles. borrowed from soft lips. frail snakes hiss from under their stones. while they wait for their venom to replenish. the world is full of lies. but those that I've been told are the ones worth believing.

soft bricks suffer their walls. in stutters of regret. shame. touch. confession. the cracking mortar. of every great fortress. the earthquake whispers to her. that it's getting closer.

the innocent voodoo that silly bones will do. adrenalin and magic. pretend to change us. torn curtains and broken glass as the storm commits to its path.

time hits. like rain against closed windows. confident that it will find a way in.

Hearing Voices

2011-10-20T00:28:00.003-04:00

there is so much rope. weights and measures toiling in the dormant of choices. the thick of lies. and the thin of truth. empty pens in the fists of corpses. withered paper darkened by their open graves.

If I could still stay awake to listen to the voices. And pretend that they come from the outside. The beautiful monsters that made love possible. The ugly heroes that took it all away.

the waiting. spoiled by caution. the unblinking eyelashes of dolls to wish upon. the fetid witchcraft of pleasure. that chased away the last of that dream.

When. As soon as this distant sheath of skin confesses to murder. And that dull blade inside it digs its way back into my flesh.

Living is violence. Life is a corruption of moments. One by one they take everything. A brutal and unrelenting rape. Constantly tearing. Digging at the small holes. Until the void becomes comfort.

I thought the hurt was world enough. Some wasting habit ample to annihilate. Papier mache skeletons. Drying slowly against the thin balloon of touch. Harder still against the arrogance of the hollow.

Confident in the poetry of the paradox. Of all that could not be because it already was.

Everything is nothing. Nothing was everything.

In it I heard. The whisper of a sheep amongst the roar of the wolves.

The Determined Pendulum

2011-10-16T23:41:00.004-04:00

I'm at the bottom. Still falling.

With every angle I saw us. Refracted and bent. Moments spoiling for more than mere seconds. To find each other. A relentless gravity. Whispering in my ear. That I was getting closer.

In every way I could I wore the shame. The need inside like rotting wood. Dark and moist and crumbling with expectation.

I was a caterpillar. Spinning an urgent cocoon. Unaware that it had missed its moment. Dead inside a failed opportunity for transformation.

I'm full. Sick with the taste of strangers. Starved inside the infinity of my own skin. Grabbing. Clutching. Everything there is to hold. Owning nothing.

I put time into a box. A small gift for a seldom friend. And I waited for it to be received. Humbled by the slow arc of life's pendulum that would decide whether or not I would be remembered.

I was loud and small as we so often tend to be. Just weak enough to want to be condemned.

A face without lips. Stealing a kiss. A stare without eyes. Pretending to look. For what was never there. An impotent ghost. Haunted by its houses.

Book of Shadows

2011-10-13T23:44:00.003-04:00

patterns. the wake of the seed. as drought ensues. angles make their marks in pliant skins. the geometry of sex is there are only parallels. no intersections. sharp corners that squeeze us too close. shapes confessing we don't fit.

fingers see much better than eyes. the weakness. in strokes of skin. jack rabbits kissing foxes running from huntsmen. thighs learn so much quicker than heads. the parody. of love. that uses us.

it's a commodity of flesh. that finances this living. just listen. disappear into the quiet fury of failing bridges.

there is freedom in that grave. the dead draw their maps. through our madness. alone. the journey through it is all we have.

it's magic. a dense grimoire of touch. that works its spells. wakes the dead. convinces the deaf that they can hear its music.

it was always there. we're just only now learning that we can dance to it.

Sideways Momentum

2011-10-11T00:07:00.003-04:00

the ocean wonders just how we found our way to the dirt. the thunder puzzles over the source of the rain. each of them a tiny hole in a very large boat.

wearing her monsters in desolate fevers. claws blame the blood for the red.

she's had her share of the wind. dim stairwells at the base of her skull. humming with the footsteps of dark places both above and below. empty elevators caught between inspiration and panic.

drawing her battles. on torn burlap. and fouled crutches. distant wars left on her pillow.

the chaos worries. a small victim. dwarfed by the crime committed against it. a lazy oblivion disguised as epiphany. the truth frets. a tiny fracture in the continuum of touch. choking out the flood. the enormity of nothing overwhelms the tiny instruments that we use to measure it.

Devoted Soldiers

2011-10-06T01:07:00.004-04:00

the siren whispers to her. its lips moving. though the sound isn't there. she sees the words tumbling from its mouth. Bowling balls and shotgun shells. A long series of silent massacres. Like being young or growing old.

Her pencils betray her. She's drawn all that she is able to see. And though she knows there is more, she is tired of searching.

Skin is a treason. That gives away the secrets of these bones. A careless shrug of sex discards the skeleton. Leaves us smothered under piles of the empty flesh that remains.

Touch is a thief. That steals the joy of anticipation. Leaves us feral with wanting to consume what can never fill us.

Time is the tender edge of a very sharp blade. We stroke it. Looking for blood. Never realizing how close we are to getting what we want. The monster isn't ugly. It's beautiful and helpless. Like being young and growing old.

Soiled glass and trembling wood. Quaking rain and raging wind. The manic whisper of your skin as she tries you on for the first time. And you fit.

Forget the war. Forget the cause. It's within those small battles that life is lived.

Fever Blisters

2011-10-02T23:54:00.004-04:00

the barrel. empty as it were. pitched to the fall. everything inside it. laboring under the rule of a diligent cowardice. liberated on the fickle whims of choice.

we would dither in the thankless sunshine. each moment spoiling for the next to arrive. we would scratch. with rusty nails as our pens. our initials into the cement. still small enough to see the world as big.

and then it wasn't.

but there was no liar to hate. just the cold treason of perception. as it shifted through the gears in our heads. i was dumbfounded by how quickly we went. from friends to strangers.

the wrinkle of her eyelids as they move over the ghosts in her thoughts. tumbling betrayals. made of bone and flesh. ladders made of clay. lay against shattered windows. and she climbs. to reach. the calm hysteria of those empty rooms. where shadows still speak loud enough that she can hear them promising. it will change.

we built a strong bridge out of those delicate matchsticks. for a time, it even, took us across. but we failed to consider. the consequences of the spark.

Owing to the Scab

2011-10-01T00:15:00.001-04:00

Bright angles on the lens steer her vision toward the darkness. She presses the sour to her lips. Convinced it will make everything else taste sweeter.

There is. There are. Depending on whom you ask. An infinite number of us. Each one the same, yet different. Some more broken. Others less. All unaware each other. The infinite distance between each of them too small to measure. We are are always alone. Because they are so near.

The cripple in the stone. As it tumbles down. The muddy hill in her throat. To break the water before it reaches the sand. The awe of repetition. In scars. The spasm of pleasure. In scabs. Torn flowers on their high. The wound revives. Brassy witches suffocated under the weight of their magic.

Breath like pencils. Easily erased. Skin like ink. Bleeds through. The thin slips of paper she puts between herself and them.

Year after year levies upon her its debts. Still she responds the same way she always has. With payments made in flesh.

Blind Tailors Deaf Violins

2011-09-27T23:47:00.004-04:00

She revels in the texture of hours. As she chews on them with the same fervor as any addict. Heavy boxes. Full of nothing. That taste so good.

The purchase of morality is usually on credit. Little sticks. Big drums. No rhythm. No one listens. But anyone can dance.

An eager rodent. Tail atwitch. A dirty princess. Licking the pea.

There are dancers. Minute ghosts on the edge of her eyelids. That die and are born again with each blink. Manic witches with their heads boiling in the cauldron. Crippled insects in the shadow of the toad's kiss.

She dances to the creek of sagging bridges. Too far is as close as she's ever been. It's all music to her. The slow decay of skin that delineates her world. The pieces in which it arrives. The millions of positions they might take. The picture they could almost make.

The scrape of touch. Extracting life from graves. The inherent duality of want. That it might be possible to take and give in equal portions. She tries on again. Those borrowed moments that once let her live. As though she were the same.

They still seem to fit.

Burlap Skins

2011-09-24T23:36:00.004-04:00

Open windows. Teasing the wind. Long arms grabbing at the raindrops. Needles dripping with the perfect dose of poison. To make me just sick enough to live.

Nervous lips taste the smirk in the glass. As it breathes another bit of gravity into her veins. Despair's gentle monster crawls into her bed. And quietly devours. The person she thought she was.

It rains so much louder than it used to. And I listen much too closely. To the stutter of the hours as each one is choked away. By a relentless series of tomorrows. Everything grows so old and tired, yet nothing ever ends.

Open windows. Reach out for the rain. For proof that gravity is still there.

Towers of Inferno

2011-09-22T00:24:00.004-04:00

tremors. soldiers. blackness.

it was early when i woke him. it seemed cruel, but necessary. we needed more than could be found in the dark. and he'd already slept for so many years. it's the disadvantage of youth. wanting to know everything. including the bad. it's a paradox of the flesh. that it cannot feel until it's been touched.

he was heavy with so many variants that the constant fell away. he wasn't one to search for it.

in tremors. and quakes of skin. whelping soldiers. guided by hungry rifles. and miles of blackness. killed as best they could. the harmless monsters we blamed for everything.

he was empty with the reasons he'd kept. and there wasn't anything left in the world that could solve that dissonance. i was just as helpless as he was. only on the other side of the glass.

deafened by a war bigger than both of us. blinded by a mirror reflecting too strong. faces we hadn't worn in years.

tastes. trials. muscles. nerve ends. priests far too tempted. consumed by an inferno of their own sermons. a tower of guilty want. always leaning closer. gentle satans submit their sins. to the power of loneliness. grateful for the freedom surrender offers.

Uneven Sidewalks

2011-09-18T23:58:00.003-04:00

turned by the corners. touching the bottom. faces drawn on yellowed paper. torn. petals from her cheeks. folding. creased. strangers. in the blunt pencil strokes that love tends to draw with. and me, fresh out of paint.

she conspires with the woodsman. to erase the breadcrumbs that led to the wolf. and the candy house. where the witch was cooked by the children. dead is dead. and I'm in no mood for a picnic.

sometimes the lie tells us. and we are its victim. all of us monsters. destined to blindness. some sooner than the rest.

the scrape of the hours. pressing against the glass of her skin. bargaining for entry. back into a life that no longer exists. the pantomime of sex. bargains for her body. words are forfeit. in the silence between them. she draws with her eyes. and erases with her fingers.

all the beautiful hurt this world offers to covet. tall bridges to to jump from and the icy waters that beckon from below.

spoiled by the colors. she still remembers. but can no longer see. black ink befriends her. like the quick venom from an angry snake.

she captures each raindrop as it falls. holding it hostage. listening to the squeal of hungry pigs gorging themselves on her shit. a proper feast. hard with sound and fury. delicate with sickness.

the blade came so softly. that she had no idea she was bleeding. nor was she disappointed.

Tender Machines

2011-09-17T23:32:00.006-04:00

close enough to hate. distant enough to love. the moment came and went. pausing only long enough to let me know that it had been. and was over.

rain on the sidewalk. erasing where we'd been. fingerprints on the glass. exposing who'd been looking in. pigs in tuxedos made of mud. as dirty as they want to be.

she's a soft doll. knots in her neglected hair. hating the comb come to tame her. she's a gurgling predator. throat slit. claws still out. immersed in the pursuit of death. we're always young so long as we don't need the things that want to have us. only growing old as they tire of the hunt.

delicate chambers. marked by the passage of choices. slender strings. move the scenery. as we fail to progress. little hiccups in the light. bends in the paper. as she traces. with a stout pencil. the thin outlines. that grow steadily darker. at both the edges and the center.

strangers on their velvet stages. peel away her paper flesh. crush her plastic bones. exposing the grim mechanics of a desperate woman.

and the men who require such ugly incentives.

Haunted Houses

2011-09-16T00:02:00.002-04:00

The quiet contradiction of rain. As it falls silently against open windows. She chews on her words. Corn syruped sandpaper. In the dark it's never too late. There's no reason to sleep. She just keeps trying. To swallow those stones.

A rush of guilty pleasure. As she bites down on the boulder. That's gone too soon. The wet kiss of the wind. As the storm picks up in potency. Pulling on the curtains. Sucking the fabric into the million tiny holes in the screen that separates stranger and fiction.

Flattened clothes on the floor. Heavy with the whispers of when. Skin and bones were still dense enough. To give shape to all those ghosts.

Divisions

2011-09-14T23:47:00.005-04:00

Fractions. The queasy stroke of the numbers. Just before her eyes close. The waiting. For the decimal. As if. I'll ever be whole. The subtleties of villains. Pencil sketches on torn paper. The ego of the artist. Determined to create something from nothing.

Chameleons in the color of her cheeks. Play the pastels.

The future is a devious distraction. From now.

So many numbers. I'm still counting. How many beds I had to sleep in to find the right one.

all this despair burns to smoke. the body is just a chimney.

Relative Dimensions

2011-09-14T00:10:00.003-04:00

comparisons. how far i can see. how close i was. the calm of surrender. the liberation of confession. taut sheets. crisp and white. catch the blood. days. years. months. screws. stripped of every thread. spinning in the hole. useless without friction. the huff of the machine. as it fails to move us.

the void flourishes. loneliness. wild and urgent. howling alley cats. hissing at the darkness. as they sense the dogs coming closer.

functions. the stale of the numbers. ripe with the murder of touch. confession. self. in steps. hate. both a gradual poison. and a tedious cure.

the hours. the months. the years. barter their diseases. a sour wealth. she sweetens with wilted flowers.

contours of the ghost's cheek. incredulous mountains. erupt into volcanoes. chafe against this rabid null. that came so quietly. and dared to grow. so much larger than everything else.

Fat Ballerinas

2011-09-11T00:08:00.008-04:00

gave away what i once was. to an alien in a badly torn mask. it kinda looked like me.

snapped the twig in half. threw it on the fire.

as if there was nothing between then and now. except empty highway. rich with skid marks. angry tortoises. and beaten hares. telling stories no one would ever believe.

ran plenty far, but seldom fast enough. to illustrate any moral.

pulled too often. too hard. on the cord. on gravity's switch. was never able to turn it off. not held down. weighted just enough. to make it hard. to get up.

tied the knots. in the necks of lifeless dolls. hating gods I'd never believed in.

a life wasted. untangling the strings on puppets. that have no stage on which to dance. no audience to grieve. for all that they've lost.

dirty pennies. the copper grins of feeble monsters. heavy nickels. the impotent science of so many drugs. that promise to kill us. but rarely deliver.

i argued with gravity. and won.

wish i hadn't.

Autopsies on the Living

2011-09-06T00:42:00.002-04:00

the wolf winks. devout with blood.
and other dying things.

the rabbit growls. repentant with hate.
and pious with killing.

the stones in her throat weigh her down.
eager to change things that can not be.

the noise is a comfort. the stutter of poisons that must manipulate beautiful ovens. thick with the stench of burning witches. and the chafe of skin as it pulls away from the bone and the muscle. because the skeleton has begun to listen.

she is corrupted by silence.

Dwindling Applause

2011-09-02T00:31:00.001-04:00

there are storms enough. for this drowning that I covet. sight is just a blemish on an otherwise blind contrition. a heavy backlog of skin. still to digest. the more I chew on it, the harder the swallowing becomes. i used to be so hungry. so ravenously young. a rabbit vaguely teasing the greyhounds. unable to imagine being caught. i used to be in color. but now i'm only shades of grey. an array of empty winter coats. nothing inside to keep warm. a mermaid confined in an ocean of piss. doesn't drown. can't. but wishes she could. a stumble. a moment. a lifetime in just seconds. one step too far trapped in cement. the wolf still in her bed. taking little bites. so she doesn't notice how much is missing. tease the actors. as the curtain closes. the moment barely there. determined to lie as much as it can.

Hurricane

2011-08-26T00:22:00.004-04:00

paper sails propel empty boats. barking shadows. menace the dark. until it rains again.

the truth is patient. it waits us out.

time is delicate. it tears too easily. foil princes loyal to the fickle science. of hungry wolves. her eyes a flush of contrition. as she measures the missing years.

the monster misses. ribbons and onion skin. trace the past. the jump ropes of slaves. the choices. she's stolen. empty boxes.

enchanted by the rain. seduced by the thunder. a far away storm that pretends to be close.

Blank Entries

2011-08-22T00:05:00.003-04:00

she used to sleep. now she just sometimes forgets she's awake.

she spreads her legs to let them enter her time machine. confident in the location of the instruments. no machine is worthwhile until it can be persuaded to do what you want.

there are cautions. in the colors of flesh. the apple hardly the last of her temptations.

there are monsters that no longer frighten. Though they remain every bit a threat.

the window in her throat. confess loudly. the years her lips have yet to tell.

Copper Pots No Yolks

2011-08-17T23:21:00.005-04:00

an arrow at the back of her throat. changes direction. she isn't moved.

her fingers are tissue paper. as she tries to feel.

the charmless hero waddles beneath his cape. while the girl still waits to be rescued.

a choice of poisons. each one equally as fatal. one sour. one sweet. ultimately. the bitter wins her over.

her legs tremble. as she climbs the steep stairways. each floor a fleeting destination. promiscuous gods tracing the outlines of their angels on onion skin paper.

her eyes. like pebbles. thrown away on wishing wells.

Pragmatic Saviors

2011-08-14T23:59:00.003-04:00

the years moved swiftly through her skin. a simple syrup. sour, but fortified with stubbornness. By the prospect of predators arrogant with the hunt.

she names the voids. the barren geometry of choice. tugs on the frays in the hem of her dress. monsters in the beds of men. proving her naked. like hungry matches. desperate for oxygen. devour the flame. the tiny matchstick mad enough to consume immeasurable darkness.

the arrow. the want. soldier enough. in enduring wars. with stagnant kings. weakened by the crown. their spears. heavy with the copious conditions. that giants woulds defend. from the empty tables that feast would pretend.

the simple execution of words. close to the needle. the spoil of lovers. as her song fades. the hatchet to the wolf's belly. As the forest is calculated.

there is time enough she insists. Asphalt to chase. And pus to suspect. As she learns from the infection. Leaving the penny to the fountain. and the bridges to collapse.

she's there again. the same as she always was. blade and barter second thoughts. as the minutes prowl in their thunder. hours erupting to the touch of strangers.

Tessellation

2011-08-11T23:19:00.003-04:00

sudden truths give way to slower lies. every breath is an invasion. her lungs weep at the prospect of another minute wasted being alive.

small pebbles bore big holes. over time. dull blades still cut. just slower. more jagged.

she chews on the remnants of her former life. soiled blankets content in their filth. now burn in bleached buckets. broken doll parts chafe against the friction of becoming whole again. the void gapes and yawns against the threat of her sobriety. almost as angry as she is that it's over.

tiny knots multiply across long lengths of rope. her rappel is brief. quickly over the edge. to shit on gravity. the climb is infinite. up is without definition. a cautious quality of suspicion. puzzle pieces. desperate for an image. in a place without vision.

she shouts at the deafness that is choices. making any still left to her. she punches the lead walls that shape the world. hunting for windows she's not certain were ever there. weak candles in long, unlit corridors. straining toward a distant wind.

Dilation

2011-08-07T23:49:00.007-04:00

faces like tunnels. eyes like graves.

walk with me. next to nothing. lend me your truth. just for the night. let me learn. how empty the world is.

trust the flame. its purpose does not waiver. it must consume.

color me in. i am an outline. hungry for dimension. in a world with so little of it.

scales in the dark. weigh what cannot be seen. little pigs in their houses. whores to the wolf. spend their flesh in pennies. though there are dollars to be had.

time folds to surrender. ladders reach the window. by drunken stabs. the curtain finds her. poised to the cadavers. eyes in the moon. watch the world. end.

i ask her. where she's going. she says nowhere. i follow her. on her lonely path. needles and thread. like dull pencils. faking pictures. making seams where nothing is connected.

i take her. as she is. flesh in crutches. broken bones beneath it. the poise of obstinance. As it rages against. humbles origins. i take her. in cuts of color. ripe with bile. every hour is throw up. every minute after victory.

the radius. the conundrum. of circles and decision. the powerless man. confined to his pause. if it was always this quiet. its only now that i hear it.

Orbital Elements

2011-08-05T23:21:00.004-04:00

i hadn't been counting for quite sometime. but the numbers are independent from the whims of thought. i hadn't been counting for years, still the numbers still continued going up. a soft swarm of drones. each one plunging its stinger deep. i never felt them at all. until i looked down and saw the pile pf torn abdomens at my feet.

there is no feeling in the the touch. nor any pain in the intrusion. it's in the afterwards. when the majority of our lives occur to us.

she was chewing gently on the fire. ample coals dense with the heat. left over after so many years of wanting. her window barely open. the glass badly blurred. worshipping the fragile notion. that something exists beyond it.

just barely choice enough he cautioned me as i lingered on the idea. that nowhere could serve as a destination. i wouldn't have kept going had i known then. how strong it would be. the pull of his emptiness.

the sober chase of the glass. all the world is windows. transparent scenes. intangible. a rigorous series of flamboyant sunsets. raging with color and fury. too far way to be real.

Shaking Hands with the Sun

2011-08-02T23:04:00.004-04:00

strays in the pudding. mice and vinegar kisses. tickle their way down her throat. pebbles in the soup. chocolate and onions garnish her thighs. the feast is putrid. but her hunger is more powerful than her revulsion.

the parable assembles itself. with rusted screws and rotting wood. she follows it. sewing her stitches. obsessed with the knot at the end of the thread. so small. it often slips through. a long series of careless metaphors. her creation far more gap than bridge.

the expectation chews on her. molars and canines filthy with sweat and menstruation. chances fouled to the basest con. the fallacy of wholeness spoils each of the fragments. making each tiny piece even smaller somehow.

the raw thrust of humility as it sneaks inside her. a subtle rape. a trenchant violation. a crime without a name. a less than innocent victim.

Sewing the Wind

2011-07-30T22:57:00.005-04:00

the wet on her tongue still tastes of hours before. a storm rages between the creases in her lips. rotten apples. their skin not pierced. the meat devoured from within.

the blunt satisfaction. the spoiled justice. that can only be found in hopelessness. long threads unraveling to endless knots. frightened snakes twisting in the darkness. nothing without their poison.

the numbers arrive in colors. stabs of light that carve the sharper images. from the soft curves on the thought. division makes more from less.

with our every step the earth is shifted. gravity becomes us. the pull of hunger's fever. the shameless futility of want. the numbers. every one with their own beating heart. sick with the science of cause.

the threads may change. still the needles remain constant.

The Fulcrum

2011-07-26T16:24:00.007-04:00

hours spread through her body like infection. she fits herself into the disease. as well as she can. the autonomy of fishhooks intense with sabotage.

the treason is touch. a clown on the piano to persuade the deaf.

she stands at the center. arms trembling under the weight of emptiness. she stands there in the middle. dwarfed by the enormity of choices she had perceived as so small. isolated by windows she neglected to open. frozen shut.

the life that once gestated inside her. now hard. calcified. dead. necrotic. the days. the months. the years. a continuous series of miscarriages.

an arrow on the ground. dug deeper each time. still unable to guide the blind man.

she crawls toward the center. pivoting wildly against the weight that she drags. stranding herself at the center.

to wait.

for the bridge to collapse.

Particles

2011-07-24T00:46:00.005-04:00

the years wear her. a loose drape. barely enough to cover how much has been spent.

the compulsion festers. an empty revolver. anything else is merely ammunition.

chance arrives stale. and leaves the same. there are dials. and levers. tiny boxes full of diversion. that transform the young into the old. discarded weapons to comfort the dead that can't fit into any grave.

buttons pressed. whisper of surrender. blades bent. keep their shackles silent even as they tremble. it's always about death. the abyss within. that swallows up any echoes which attempt to escape.

it's about repetition. the erosion of skin as it swells against the illusion of intimacy. it's about compulsion. hard stabs of love that leave the entrance swollen and bleeding.

she remembers herself only in the faces of strangers. and wonders if they're forgotten.

Cantankerous Cruciferous

2011-07-23T00:15:00.005-04:00

the broccoli made me do it t-shirt.

devilish green fiend.

flowery impetuous weed.

cruciferous conundrum of crunchiness.

chlorfil whore high on photosynthesis.

Drowning Kittens

2011-07-18T00:56:00.005-04:00

eager pistons throb. within beautiful corpses. teeth in the tunnel. gnaw on the panic. spend the threads. frail locks. brittle walls. corrupt with choices. so much poison to play with. subtle as she tries to be, her body is a treason.

the barter in her grin. manages to purchase for her only more empty hours. the rage in his sobs festers. growing stronger. spreading its infection.

she touches the void. curious to feel. there is surface. there is weight. there is density. in the hollow.

tying knots. to make windows in the flesh. the muscle. the bones. substantiated by what is missing.

the equation boasts of its humanity. numbers and blood mingle. under the guise of science. she struggles. as time picks up speed.

the whole world deaf. waiting on a blind man's gun shot.

quietly the world ends.

A Metaphor For When

2011-07-12T01:40:00.006-04:00

stones in her throat. fetch steps to oblivion. worms in her head. parse its random isotopes.

there is nothing whole. only the sand in her shoes. as she surveys the edge of the world. the perimeter is vast, but inside it everything is small. a swarm of acquiescent fragments manipulated by the momentum of their frenzy.

the rigid horizon cradles her angels. the science of want is the devil's chessboard.

the burnt wood. under the mantle. dares not forget the flames. cold as it has become. the ladder stilted. the voices dense. on the stage. where half-hearted hamlets rage at plastic skulls. timid soliloquies smothered by their rage.

each word a razor blade on her lips.

so much to say.

before that fickle curtain closes.

The Zen of Free Fall

2011-07-07T00:55:00.007-04:00

Drawing in the folds. Soft pencils trace the vacuum. Bits of wolf overcome the lamb. Need betrays us. In sobs and punches. Chokes of flesh measure. The distance between how and if.

Close drifts further away. The bridges collapse.

The persistence of mirrors all that remains. Every corner aware. As she studies the intrusion. Chasing the reflections of the strangers inside her. Long nightgowns heavy with sleeping despots.

the choice slips inside her. Bricks and saliva. Ripe with gravity.

The fall comes, but the free is gone.

Awareness

2011-07-04T01:06:00.003-04:00

patterns. the subtle craft of skin. to extract awareness from vanity. perpetual. the compulsion. the genius. of desperation to burden us with life. the wormhole at the base of our spine. carelessly naming the colors. these broken bulbs have cast. misunderstanding the darkness that grants us sight.

time is a blind surgeon. cutting the cancer out of corpses. futile heroics.

the wormhole exhales. she waits. for the future to find her. a soft bridge over a deep expanse. a disease worth having, even if only to know its beautiful symptoms. the possibility of a cure.

Even a funeral might be a victory. Even dying might be a reward.

The wormhole teases. Chances to die. Opportunities to live. The monkey rapes the chalkboard. The scientist fiddles with the maze. Everything is close. Burnt matchsticks. Everything is distant. Paper dresses still carry the stones.

the dead have a way of choosing their graves.

Stepping Stones

2011-07-01T00:55:00.002-04:00

the nail breaks. the hair is split. derelict prepositions poison the sentence. diluted villains belittle the champion. close to the edge. closer still to gravity. she rarely remembers the fall. it's the landing that sticks.

the monkey pushes its stick into the hole. confident in the victimology of circumstance. a cascade of effect storms down. in tight little fists of how. if the sky were closer. I wouldn't have to reach so far. if the Earth only spun a little bit slower I could make some progress.

the moment thumps on the book. a stoic drum pushing the journey forward even as I stumbled back again. little bows in the storm of her hair play like raindrops on the glass in her cheeks. frantically lost in the wake of their own momentum.

touching the curtain she feels the mere millimeters between then and now. progress. parasites on her tongue peddle their silence. while she waits on the words that never come.

tiny footprints in big puddles of cement. a vague promise of permanence. wet maps. bring her closer. all paths bleeding into one.

Craters in Time

2011-06-30T01:12:00.003-04:00

the chase. fingers in the spark. burnt not by the fire, rather the darkness.

the rabbit in the tool shed hides behind the saw. not a stick of wood left to build with. the girl waits by the hammer. but there are no nails left to hit. time withers at the thought of her. a manic clown drowning in its makeup. if there were years they were too short. if there are only minutes they are mercilessly long.

the stone orchestra that chooses her thoughts. in collisions of reason and madness. too quiet to understand. too loud to ignore.

trails that stumble between now and then. the manic curiosity of if. chokes of thunder. squeeze through the clench of darkness. in a trickle of numbers dangerously close to zero.

the rumble of choices. lightning bolts and syringes. make more sickness than they cure. the taste of the infection. white with desperation. colors wrestled from disease.

a pinwheel in the wind.

spinning.

alone.

Evidence

2011-06-27T01:07:00.003-04:00

the structure. torn pockets content with the vertigo of broken thread. the substance. soft skin. hard bones. close enough to hurt one another. the shear. the years rasped off. layers. fragments of. the tensile disputes between touch and pleasure. when such discrepancies could still be measured.

the callous. tempts the hammer. eager to feel again. while the scar hisses hard against the silence. brutally entitled to its want.

the villains. worn down to the nub. as she scours the puzzle for excuses. the days in pencil. the nights in ink.

pictures. in dust and skin. heavy butterflies stall the wind. missing steps. rabbits in the garden. the absolute. the praise of the symptoms. the worship of the disease.

her trial in empty dresses. her conviction as naked as her defense.

Knot in the Thread

2011-06-25T00:35:00.003-04:00

the minimum. numbers on the side. sums at the bottom. scavengers in the swallow. the vague of dispensation. bones tutor the flesh. in tunnels and knots. until all paths are either hollow or dead ends.

the arrow. how high. provisions of distance. follow the skeleton for reference. the poison of if. rigid and brittle. the pale companion of choice withers against circumstance. loose fangs in the mouths of monsters. still plenty sharp enough.

places. time. the intersection. between lie and confession. hard soil with deep holes dug. mountains bending down to let us touch the summit. good thieves and bad. gods and demons. all of them strays. With their eyes closed. Feeling for the edge.

where the stitches are loose are the fabric forgives.

Comparing Confessions

2011-06-21T00:28:00.003-04:00

the seldom. fabric smiles on petroleum cheeks. caution. stitches. blunt needles stir the setting potion. years. the weep of silk. from flattened spiders. their prey still caught. waiting for the killer that never comes.

the glamour. frantic conditions. the journey in zippers up her legs. teeth up her spine. tongues down her thighs. the taste. the scent. the incredible dilemma of when anything was worth remembering.

closure. sutures on the the exposed. open flesh. grinning bones. needless of the skeleton. pieces. broken stilts. still higher than I've ever felt.

the stench. a tuxedo of skin. a skunk. the black and white of choices. lost inside the walls. knots and stitches. the formalities of touch overwhelming. the consequences disproportionately severe.

In Grams

2011-06-19T00:55:00.004-04:00

fragments of need. in cuts and swallows. the lurch of bones under heavy skin. still moves me closer. the throb of muscle under her clothes. exposes much more than it conceals.

the atom. the goat. the faint tug of gravity as the atmosphere approaches. she's like a drizzle. gentle and barely there. a victim of herself. she's a blizzard. as blind as it is mad.

she takes confessions. drops of blood in her underwear. stains in her bed to lay upon. pretend to choose what is left to be had.

the apple. the sweet poison. of seeds yet to be planted.

Blaming Chance

2011-06-16T00:46:00.004-04:00

breath evolves the same as any organism is wont to do. need festers and boils. until from the muck the solution is distilled.

touch approaches. with an empty quiver and a broken bow. determined to kill anything not its own.

the farce is patient and infinitesimal. tiny dividers keep the moments apart. so that there is space for growth.

she scribbles her numbers down. as all observers must do. watching the path of the elevator for clues.

hollow walls. carelessly. shuffle the people inside them.

time's match catches on her dress. the flame is cruel and tender. as the burn consumes.

Scholars and Thieves

2011-06-13T00:31:00.003-04:00

the bloated parasite falls off the skin. dense with the blood form a lifetime of choices. the ladder shakes as she approaches the terrace. she assumed the window would be open. a pivotal mistake.

knots in the map. Bend her path. broken bulbs in heavy lamps. she listens carefully for the colors, but white is all that's left.

the marker fades are she continues to trace. so many outlines without a middle. every moment. in papier mache. sticky, wet and soft with sunken faces.

determined to set. even if that means these voids are permanent.