Take care with naming the parable. Count your wolves carefully. Make note of your little pigs.

Fairy tales are too much like skin. Asking so much. Proving nothing. Frankensteins on hte verge of sex. Monsters in her weekday. Borrowing from thicker concussions.

Words. In fits of oblivion. Gods debating. Ambivalent saviors.

The mythology of skin in paper cuts. So many gods. So little blood.


Just the nagging ache that accompanies the fear that i've said too much.

And the knowledge that the end to this coma lies within.

It takes too long to remember. Even longer to forget. And it only matter because it's broken. Because I want more than it is.

Testing the terminal with bits of men. That's the only kind there really are. The robot in her underpants racheting his dick tighter in. She's a window. A fragment of moonlight on the eyelids of the blind. The universe in bitter gulps on lemondade. The sugar teasing from between her tits.

You're never too old to to regret losing someone.

But they might be lost contrary to your remorse.

You're never too old to hate yourself. Or to be hated.

Tiem has its kindness. The give of young skin. The press of memory intent to fulfill the wish.

Of lonely people. Tall windows in blind houses. Arguing with the rooms. Beds that won't listen. Nervous pillows pretend to want that stranger that are left.

The glass. In fractions. Gods that can't see through. All the lies I have to tell to keep heaven close.

Trusting still in the logical manias of discarded skin.

Yesterday still on her list of clothes to wear. Before she gets old. The matador. The sad songs. With heavy horns. The red cape between her thighs. Doses of anger. Sneaking into the cures.

The brainwash comes in stilted intervals. I'm free because they say I am. I'm happy because that is what we are.

The cardboard of her lips not retaining the words I'd written upon dirty cheeks. The smother of the first touch. The starvation of the last. We died with pride in humble graves. We lived knowing it was purposeless. Heaven not reason enough. Hell no deterrent. Calling our demons by name. Christening them by the faults of our bones. The devil does not frighten me. Since I know he is confined to the prison of my skin.

The pus. Thrones of dead gods. Stuck to filthy crowns. forcing me to change my bandages.

The infection omniscient. All my diseases are gods. All my angels lie about how close I am to heaven.

Her wine in little baskets at her hips. Her grace directly apportioned. Busy vaginas pollinating faces. Fingers. Lips. Sorting the skeletons that accompany these modest disasters often termed happiness.

It's like I've never slept. Been staring at the world from the beginning. The art gone from it. Every stroke a cliche. Empty placeholders for. Because I've looked too long. For saving in the demons.

I'm under. below the flame. Last lies burning off in a boil of skin. The wax forming. shapes of touch conceding to the molds we've laid out for them.

Filling.

Bad dreams. Communicating. The tatter of the dolls. She still sleeps with. Still names as if anyone would recognize.

Their faces. Let alone their names. Or how she still finds them in a sea of broken faces.

Amuse me. Make it hard to laugh. Soil. Preaching to her toes. Grass. Jesus naming the creatures again. They're still new enough? He begs.

Strong. Bitter words contradict. The melodies of the damned. I was a scarecrow for a while. Lying about what was guarded. To the hungriest. I was straw. And old shirts. No one would want to wear again. Telling the lies the grown tired of.

I was fields. Tall stalks. Striving for the sun.

I could hear their footsteps. Roll in the mud of each decision. Hookers raising their pieces. as the need tapers off. Small flowers on long stems. Hoping the rain will return. Hoping that the rain that has fallen will last.

Her skin like a drugstore. waking up. Tomorrow seems a punishment. The disease more relevant than the cure. Trying on new men.

They're all old she says.

Nothing's changed.

Numbers in the spaces between touch and feel. Colors to negotiate the shape of alone. Skin is a cryptograph. Sex is the solution to it. The riddle is what to do with all this confidence.

Seal the monster up in this cage of ribs. Where everything goes to die. Or let it loose upon to feed upon this voracious landscape of flesh.

Either way.

There's still this war. And all these corpses. To bury.

Either way.

No one's hurt. Except those that I was trying to save.

So many missing time machines make it impossible to know.

Where I was.

Where I was going.

Too many iterations of us. I can't tell if we ever knew each other.

It's just time. Wearing bras too small. Scratching in old ledgers. Failing to subract. Each dimension with its own threat. Bleeding soft. THe reamins of too much ink ony my wrists. Pharmaceuticals unquenched in the dark of my drawer. Until something remembers what I cannot. Too much of it. The truth mushrooming. The subtle destruction right has wrought. Ambivalent. Transparent as a whore.

I'm right. I've gone too far back. There is no time machine anymore. I'm there. Like a wasp. Counting the stings to kill the ant. I'm there. Without a time machine. Trying to prepare myself for when it's gone.

An failing even before it's happened.

I was only talking to myself. Afraid to say it out loud. Camping out in my skin. Thinking the whole time about being somewhere else again. I was reading silently. Because that's always how I read him. Turning pages in the dark. Feeling for the impressions of the letters.

People are like long division. I like to do it short. Upside down. Discarding the remainders.

I always listened, but it was hard to hear. A bark is a bark no matter what it's trying to say. The world spills in, no matter your barricades. Pieces of finger. Bits of faces. A docile cancer that begins in the head and suddenly erupts into every extremity. The comfort of touch slowly poisoning our ample purgatory.

The problem isn't that we're waiting for heaven, but that it's not waiting for us.

It's not the dying that's a problem. It's how long it takes.

People are time. In its most basic state. The thrust of space pressing down hard. On tender atoms. Undecided. The grin of the quark. The frown of the electron. The spatial dances of the tiny elements that makes us feel so large.

And so small.

She was standing on snow. In front of it and behind. Her ass spread on the warm hood of her tercel. The rest of her waiting for something to happen.

The world is a coin toss. Sex is a lottery. Winning isn't the object. It's all about believing that someday you might. He placed a brown paper bag beside the snow mound under her feet. Wine, beer and snacks. The romance of a drunk man. The valentine of a perpetual bachelor.

The room was large, but had never known empty. She was barely old enough not to hate herself anymore. Maybe he knew that, but she didn't think he was that clever.

The beer was bitter. The lubricant was icy. As she dug for his motive. The words were there. In fragments of what she had meant to say. Sedate gods on the edge of failing heavens. The flush of missing skin tempting. Loose bandages on nervous wounds.

He was ready a long time ago. She still wasn't. The echo of skin repeating loudly as she tried to explain to herself what was happening.

The alarm going off so loud that she had to assume she'd already woken up.

The door was open as he took his piss. Like she hadn't been there at all.

Banana peels in the dresser. All her skin trying to regain its balance. Debating whether gravity actually exists.

Dead pigs or living ones are still pigs just the same. Covered in blood. Inside and out. To fuck. Swallowing everything whole. Only to puke up every piece of skin immediately afterward. Flies on the shit. There's a reason they call it stool. There's a reason for every idiom. Especially cum. They do come. Too close. And leave far too soon.

Telling the rain which way to fall and how hard.

Pink skin a perfect label for the white meat underneath. Dull claws scraping the chalkboard under his tongue. Too much life to ever hope to live. The words melting. Sweet. Like ice cream down her chin.

Microscopic earthquakes. Tiny fissures in her makeshift universe. The rumble of the house as the weather beats it into submission. No sleep tonight. No gods to waken with thwarted prayers. Just rain. On the glass. Just rain. Everywhere. Floods of skin comparing skeletons.

Pigs. Not being slaughtered. Slaughtering instead.

All Dead. Either way.

Little aliens. Freckles of hate on her cheeks. They failed me. And I them. In all the ways humanity is supposed to save us. I drank so much that Star Trek finally made sense. In that weird way when you can overlook the paradox. Of being in a time where you've yet to exist.

He told me I was good, but could be better. To which I replied not at all. He couldn't save me. Nor I him. And what did we need saving for? All the monsters being in our heads. Or otherwise wishing they could go back there. Like the good little hells they are. Seeking the sins. Not the sinners.

There is so much to say. So much nothing.

It's easy to believe some one's listening.

Or moreso that they will remember.

A leak in the pillow suffocates his stare. We both die traversing the desert between us. Sere skin poisoned by too much sunlight.

All the things meant to keep us alive killing us.

Chasing the vortex. Tiny lions trying to roar. Assembling the universe in sloppy stitches and matted hairs. Lies I've yet to tell to people I still don't know. The black hole of together draws us closer. Tears us apart. We are nothing. Not each other. Nor ourselves. Just pieces constantly coming together and falling apart.

Staring at the mediocrity principle apparent in his empty socks. Explaining to herself why it should matter. Admitting that it never has.

Small universe. Big lies.

The dog's still wagging his missing tail.

I was his wormhole. Packages of future in bundles of past. All wrapped in pretty bows and willing to pretend none of this is real.

Sionara kittens in the backseats of loose fit pants. So many claws. So few scratches.

Small people carrying big bags. Short trips that last too long. Waiting for jesus with a hand full of matzo balls. Finding god in unanswered calls. I can only breathe when you're far enough. Neutered tigers show their claws. In long debates where there is no winner. Just adversaries and no one to root for. The cosmetology of people leaves me wondering if that is all we are. Portraits in attics turning ugly. Truths no one sees until the ugly finally catches up with them.

Living as this pale bishop. Next to the king. The queen taken already. We've lost. If the squares are any measure of our hearts. The treble in motion. The bass on pause. Almost as if you were listening when I said what I did. About falling asleep next to someone and waking up to find they had gone.

The only difference between sadness and words is ownership.

I'm rich. I'm fucking wealthy. By those standards.

The apple in the window was so appropriate. Temptation tantamount. I asked Eve what it was like being the mother of everyone. She just laughed and said those stories are for children and the weak. I was one of many who didn't listen. They chose my name for the story, but the truth is there were many snakes. And many men. Taking. What should be ours.

The things your parents tell you to shut you up. Behave. Santa Claus and God are watching.

The truth is, Eden was a terrible place to be a woman. The snake, he offered a way out. That's all I wanted. To not have to fuck that man again. To not have any more sons that would kill each other. The truth is, I wasn't the only woman. There were so many. Condemned to men. I was just the one they blamed.

Modified notions of exit. And reasons to. The outline in question not really wanting color at all. Just to be sampled. Salty bits of caviar left on stale crackers. For the rest of us to find. To believe we had actually been on the guest list.

Time is like putty. Because memory makes it such. The brain doesn't xerox. It reacts. In chokes of booze and fits of xanax. Colors are thrown upon the walls. Left to harden. And we move on. To find new whites. Blank spaces to let the rage live.

Time is not the measure. It's only a witness.

When the gods finally decide to wake up we'll have plenty to tell them. Until then, we continue to tell our stories as if someone is listening.

Handcuffs on her dress. Ratcheting tight on her vagina. She claimed she always crossed her legs, but he knew better.

Examing her throat for indications of words not said. The tick of her lips quitetly counting off to the explosion. He was already digging. Arranging the jump in his head. Full of numbers multiplying too rapidly. Nine hundred ninety nine steps to the edge. The square root of zero is nothing. She counted the seconds until the seconds grew bored of her. Driving nowhere. Chasing the moon as it chased her. In a marathon of words all aborted. The mathmatics of second chances is that there are none.

Heroes in thick glasses wishing cellphones hadn't been invented.

Even he did it all to save himself.

Lucky for us he never did.

Save us.

Fathom the darkenss. Calculating eternity. In glimpses of stars long dead.

Time is agile and stubborn. Underwear still smelling of transient debates with touch. It says it knows, but I don't think it does. How brief the moments are that divide then and now. Trial and error. Myself and her. A little girl. Some fatty discharge hidden under an old scar. The faint hint of puke in a forgotten taste of someone else.

Calm morticians painting the smirk on dead faces. In desperate scribbles I find too familiar.

Epitomes like bubble gum. Expanding. And bursting all over our faces. Synonyms of change negotiating a treaty with dead men.

You can always talk to a ghost. It will always listen, but it'll never say what you want to hear.

Trenchcoats of skin making every one small. The rain deciding who we'd be next. Sad faces drawn in dirty clothes. Waiting for the floor to forget. The flood that made all these lies possible. Blisters on her eyes finally bursting open. The truth infects us. Makes us weak. Turns this drowning grey. Sparse deaths feeding perpetual comas.

At one with the paranoia of a healthy heart. Committed to the promise of loss.

I stood out in the rain memorizing each drop I was able to catch. Then I went inside and began subtracting how many I'd missed.

There was no counting involved. Just a lot of lions with their cages drawn on. And too many people with erasers.

Corduroy skin shifts to change its song. Tired explainations condone wasted sobriety. Rachet it down. Wrenching the cause from the victim. Blaming them. As all forms of justice inssists. Weighing my illusions against the torn feet of discarded dolls. Measuring my worth in blow jobs. Moments wasted pleasuring others.

Little glimpses of happiness between sucking dicks. Burns resolving to new skin.

Parasites promising to swallow the infection.

Men like needles full fo vaccine. Bits of the disease to make us immune.

Penises on trial. Lonely vaginas still searching for the wizard.

Hopeless Dorothy's still clicking their heels.

Children written in long words. Forgetting what they mean. Fighting with the pencil over what to lines to draw. The emtpy page more of a comfort than all the friends I've ever known.

The planets laugh at us from afar. Treating the universe like a cold sore. Biting my lip until I can find a real cure. Balloons that don't leave just because the string has broken. Words that don't recall wh we started.

Calm factories of people selling us to ourselves.

Until there's no one else left.

Except the dolls we've undresssed.

Steady in her multiplication.

She's still counting.

Trying to decide who to hate. And when.

He handed me a memory in a plain foil packet. I would've thought that he'd have dated it. The only jurors in our eyes. The only criminals in our skin. I said I couldn't keep it. That I'm not much for hanging onto things. He gave it to me anyway.

Trust has nothing to do with honesty.

It must've mattered then even if it doesn't now. Strange how it fools us that way. Finding the words to tell it as they suit our purpose. To find others either guilty or innocent. Depending on our motives.

I don't want anything. I don't want anyone. It's the only thing logical choice when I consider the evidence.

I can't see the arm, but I know it's broken. Splinters of bone falling like confetti. I can survive January, but February is a challenge. The cold knows we're weakest when it's about to end.

The wisdom of winter is that it never let's us remember how close we were to dying.

We love who we do and deal with the consequence afterwards.

Sad now because sleep was gone. The iron rabbit foiled by the paper tortoise. She woke up the ant and told it to begin foraging again. As if food were scarce. Because it was. Always hard to come by lasting meals. Genuine salvation.

God wasn't looking as she tore off a piece of paper from the tablet. God wasn't interested that the ink her pen had run dry. Calculations came in failing concrete. In dead birds of prey. Everything was small except for the numbers. The heels she wore to make herself tall.

Little girls in grandma's closet draped in lies she must've worn. Wondering how long until they'll fit.

All gods lie.. Once we learn this what is there left to worship?