Wednesday 3/11/2009 12:59:00 AM

There have always been scripts. Vague grunts from the gears. Stutters of math. As the turbines coax hesitant skin. Through empty portals.

The hot pink in her shoulders was nothing at all like the red in her crotch. It came so sudden. In condoms flushed. and false apocalypses. This future. This past. That are each the same. Or so alike other this knob that I'm always fiddling with. This red, red button I've still yet to push.

I could say it was simple subtraction, but what of these leftover skeletons. So I toy with the notion that it can be captured. Or at least harnessed. Breaking the smallest pieces. To influence the giants. Building walls to confine them. Arranging numbers to harvest the sum.

Solving the equations in stupor of when genius mattered. And time was travel. Little pigs. Pull on the the levers. As the wolf catches his breath.

Even if these weak machines could ever hope to keep up. The numbers arrive in blind reciprocals. Wolf's teeth and tails. And heavy picnic baskets.

That can't feed the predators in grandma's clothes.

Can I measure the blood in its teeth. Against that on its claws. In quarts of if. How can I ever make the wolf stop wanting. When I've only these same three dead pigs which to feed it. Only this one fraying, red hood with which to cover my head.

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