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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

impatient skeletons continue to peddle their impotent vaccines.

pliant gods name their price. in sweat and sickness. this thinning disease we call life trundles forward. a bright bouquet of so many dead flowers.

the taste of possibility. sour, sweet and sharp. pushes its way deeper. the obvious ritual of submission stalls at the finish.

words broken. in strokes of skin. stony soldiers of when. the puzzle could still be solved. remnants. fetid atoms do their math. on the fragments of us. beautiful thieves in a world ripe with want.

the pleasing torment of how. draws its stitches through the hardened blood. wounds never heal. they just fall silent. waiting to be awoken.

the rain bends. pursuing gravity's feithses.  in ticks of skin. all lit up by the halogen of apathy. the world ends where I want it to. moments. chokes of discovery. solve the riddle of us. simple sketches awash in the fever and the overlap. of choices and surrender.

pencil marks thunder. stories confess. there is no end to the world. just pauses. as loud as they can manage. the tilting clock. the granite conditions. soft shades on the window gradually let the sun in.

a quiet parade. through a tunnel of screams. a cheap purchase. tomorrow's nickels and dimes making us rich.

the knowing refuses us. the anthem can only whisper. finding the edge betrays. in that tart licorice sober.

the bitter has its place. in sweetening what we are left with. 

paper cuts and delicate monsters.at war with the world.

she sighed. violating the silence.

slender twigs of sober trembling at the extremities of the greater tree. desperate stabs of punctuation in a lifetime of run on sentences.

the hours sneak inside. needles full of welcome poisons. skin like ghosts haunt and chafe. at the corruption of their wagers. gravity an unlikely ally. in the war the mirror wages.

the shadows always win. the angles always sharpen.

time like a ribbon. beautiful knots in all the wrong places. and the empty boxes it tempts us to open.

just the edge. in the shallows of when. dull words bruising the wind. heavy fists lapping at the blood.

such is the child. such are the atoms. as divided as they've been. the yellow king. his crown all drenched in red.

the machine wheezes and weeps. choking on time. the monsters evolve. and we become them.
she closes her eyes. deep in flower petals and strangers. the weight of when. swaying like a pendulum. refusing to wait another minute.

the war teases its end. in fumbled kisses. and hollow dresses.

careless goodbyes. hungry pauses.

we perish everyday. in an apocalypse of skin. always repeating.

chalk in the rain. decimals in the math. dwindling remainders. as the sky turns to look at us. all wind and rain and gravity. the sober science of when. eventually betrays.

stealing a path from within the silence. the skeleton dances to the flesh's fading songs. free at last.
we like to pretend there are monsters to blame. but we're always alone in this.

swollen tongues. blizzards in flesh. the adamant angle of trust. so severe. soft wings. lapping at the wind. parched stories tell her. in fits of thirst and panics of hunger.

the quiet beasts. the small wounds. that fester to infection. such as we are. will always be. a labor of diseases. swimming just below the surface. cracked syringes drowning in the vaccine.

the obvious math of strangers. reciprocity's stale lament. all her fractions weighted. templates in the skin. chase in empty fists. closed doors whisper. and windows scream. while all these deaf hours remain oblivious.

the quiet collaboration. tender ghosts shuffle their bandages. gambling scabs for flesh. it's a hollow journey. naked bones that thoughtlessly echo every vacant step. the patterns twist and choke. a careless series of tourniquets.

a life of shallow middles. a suicide of edges.

tracing the sun with empty pens and broken tweezers. the quake of her skin soft, yet penetrating. as she collects the world in jagged strips. the obvious puzzles. their slender solutions. pistons in the engine. imagining the world outside the machine.  an economy of choices. rich with consequences. spend us.

a series of folds and creases. transform. the delicate illusion of want. betray the genie in favor of the lamp.I need the light more than the wish. Alwyas have.

dared by the pen to begin anew. the blueprints of solitude. the shakey construct of when. chews on her tit. seldom nourished, but always eager.

the test takes her. multiple choice surrender. no count on the graves she dug. nor the ghosts that linger above them.

life has always been a vague series of suicides. the only difference is now they are clearer.

soft windows bend to accomodate the wind. soft stairs struggle to support their climb. she chokes on the colors. eyes closed. pretending not to see what's always been there.

it's the end of the world. but she's the only one that notices.

the jagged slope. the blissful descent. all voice. no eyes. as the darkness reasons with the nearing edge. these soldiers staid. pendulum whispers and siren skin. time gives chase. in a marathon of choices. the hours ignite. and we are content to burn. for the chance to engage the demons.

everything we are is hungry. slopes and daggers. a labyrinth of faces. an echo of colors. as the canvas breathes. her timid predators not withstanding.

the end in whispers. tumbling decimals. defer to the original division. chasing the clones in all directions. gravity shifts to compensate.

broken pencils and empty pens. pursue the king. struggle with the pawns. every breath borrowed. soft motives smuggled and lost. the broken hammer argues with the nails. waiting for the walls to listen.

down in falls. cold tame wail. rising wild. hot blue monsters. more skin than eyes.
the trembling stair. the broken song. louder still. now that we are resolved to lost.

black portals below the touch. grinning membrane and lethal guise. electric fever.
scattered hope. torn envelopes flaunt their jagged flesh. the tumbling path. the heavy numbers. thick with exceptions. and splintered crutches. for hungry men and absent gods.

the numbers stolen from her barren feasts. the ink usurped from ambivalent purgatories.

her soft demons put away their horns. pretend to sleep. though dreams seldom come.

her small time machine. traces the beast. the fury of youth in loose buttons.

The monsters worn. Pliant paper dolls. Holding faster to a broken clock. the diminishing luxury of having died  before.

grey squares solve her in interrupted algebra. stolen numbers and fugitive colors. stare silently. no words come to rescue. nor heroes dare to save. the bird that cannot fly.

heavy wings beat the darkness. but gravity remains unconvinced.

tomorrow has its stories. frantic fables and lazy lessons. little forests. big children. the epiphany of perspective often stalls at threshold of gods and choices. knotted rubber bans. encompass her words. devilsih time machines. with more irony than wit.

the moment chokes on itself. an awkward suicide of symptons. the sickness turns on itself. another hungry paradise bares its fangs. listens for the blood.

she simmers and listens. an empty tea kettle left on the heat. boiling over with nothing.

the hours like brutal soldiers.

she trembles and quakes. a dead leaf codemned to the fists of the wind.

crumbling.

the grey bird sang in soft tones. bent wings flew her closer. but she never reached it. that imaginary place. others called home.

she screamed that it was a parade. she wept that the monsters didn't care. alone in her hysteria. for all the world to disdain. heavy hammers and broken bulbs. flaunting the story of her madness. between dim walls smudged with hope. and other such alluring frailties.

she draws in skin. with her hungry paper. singing songs that no one else can hear. whispering stories that only listen. never tell.

the world ended years ago. she's just waiting for her blood to notice. the infection. eager addicts with far too many exits.

playing songs. soft lullabies pretend her voice. words she's only ever imaigined saying. and all the lies she's told only to herself. the rumble. the earthquake. torn shoelaces. fumbling hte path. that finds us this close to the edge.

the words. the obvious conditions. biting down on the stick. waiting. for the words to remember. us.

the stale kindness of erupting skin. the earnest intent. of broken zippers and empty buckets. the selfish lies that are told by the flesh. they name us. in numbers and fractioms. they push away the clouds, but eventually give in

alone has it's way with her. ean easy rape. a quiet hopeleessness.

that still pretends to know what is missing.

years later she confessed he had dominated her. I nodded and pretended to be shocked. she was soft in hte middle and hard at the edges. like a whore's bed. she was alone. her voice small and defiant.

she lay there. like a puzzle too easy to solve.

and i lost interest.

her storeis hollow. her questions hard. like an idling time machine. hungry for the science that creates us. these trembling moments. more risk than reward. thundre without rain.

the seldom. the rain on the glass. like bloody tongues. and broken teeth. no meat. just cuts in the flesh. spoiling in fits of when. abundance never knew. how far we've come.

dilligent monsters. chase the gaps. time travels her. in its shaking machines. arrogant demons draw their maps. no treasure. just the holes we've dug .

patterns soft to resolve. ugly seams in long dresses. time bleeds and we are born. pale infections in the open flesh of massive beasts. we are the pus that makes November wince. we are the germ that befouls April's kiss. we are disease. in its most basic form. futile. resistant. stubborn. petulant. small of individual. plentiful of horde.

when i talk to her she is always pink. bloated labia throb like twice licked lollipops. when i talk to her she is still young. pressing the button on that machine of hers. that carves the future from these hollow corpses.

the moment listens for the whisper of conceding gods. an apple in the mouth of the pig. just as the flames begin to take shape.

the shelf pretends. the rim of the world purses its lips. as if to spit us out. bitter nipples in a sea of sweet tits. the solvent sting of gasoline. digging out the oxygen. until only the shadows are left. stitches. surrender's small needles are so bold as to confront the vein.

seams in the man struggle to stay together. threads in the woman hurry to come undone. the beast whimpers. On the precipice of her thighs. humbled by their depths.

a cloud of mortals drowned in a confusion of touch. a choke of poison to make me strong. another to purchase death. her laugh like small souvenirs. from games long since lost.

we still play. but no longer keep score.

seldom serpents manifest. a thunder of dark. tepid fangs scorn the lips. blood like flower petals. blossoms from open flesh. waiting. travelling through the pause. in stabs of conceit. backwards through time. on soft crutches and hard choices.

the hollow chamber of her grasp. the dense apparatus between her legs. the vulgar portals of all things human. swift concessions sell the song. of wet panties and soiled dresses. counting out loud. piercing each number with a grin. worn. discarded. confident monsters lurking under her bed.

so much over. taut labors curdle the charade. giants stride the marathon and tumble. next to nothing. time undresses. intent on being seduced. but all my roses are rotted. all my ironies in use.

maybe sunday was all she could threaten. as the ghosts began to stir. bone on bone. a pantomime of skin. more color than condition. sweating laboorers lost in a machine without a skeleton.

Girl sits in a dark room tapping on a keyboard.

I'm changing the world. My words matter. Can't you see that Mother? Of course not. Because it isn't true at all. I'm static. Lost in the space between movement and touch.

I'm your daughter. As useless as you wanted me to be. I'm his child. moody. I'm his sister. Shy. quiet. Their friend. Fat. Ugly. Every one's punchline. I am voice. With an eternity to scream.

Girl sips from a bottle of beer in a dark room.

I'm a poet. The world no longer has any use for us. We bleed and fart all over it as if it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't. It's nothing. This being alive is nothing but a burden.

Girl twirls her hair listening to music.

If only I had the courage. The strength. To finally finish this farce. People like to say living is brave. But people are liars and cowards. It's dying that's hard. Staying alive is as simple as doing nothing.

Girl masturbates. Girl watches television. Crawling backward through time via the fiction. The hatches it has marked in her life. She was then. Now she isn't. A balloon light with helium. Compelled to destruction.

The story tells her. Though she wishes to tell it. The curtain opens. The stage is empty. The voice exhausted.

Girl types in the dark. Saying nothing.

A meeting place. An offer of destruction. The consumption of fire. Swallows from the center. The earnest soil. The fickle water. Conspire to make us choose. Need or want.

Her voice in stones. Smooth and opaque. Like cannibals reciting poetry. The treaty. Her confession mars the victory. The war chokes awake. In puzzled nightmares thick with semen.

The numbers tell their stories. Mad tortoises in lingering races. The tide clutches the sand. More salesman than artist. Leveraging the damage against a lottery of skin.

Pockets in the Earth. A funeral of kings. A panic of princes.

Colors left and hours forged. The simple weapon of choice. The obvious execution of thought. Simple enough to envy. Complex enough to hate.

Distance decides. Everything is small.

tremors and syringes. draw their portraits. the art of dying is delicate and angular. a quiet cloud surrounded by raging storms. tomorrow fusses over the details.

impotent confessions. of liars. pocket knives in the pupils of gods.

there is no addiction. no mercy mild enough. to quell this madness.

the end. throats raw with jagged words. eyes broken.

the beginning. fingers sore on the trigger.

little cuts. burrowing deeper. hollowing out the shell.

stutters of skin. ample rages. white hooks in red meat. parasites finding the bone. it's done. paper plates absorb the blood. another year. another opportunity for loss.

beautiful girls with their arms in knots. powerless. their thighs trembling. the color of her shame. a small infection. rapidly spreading.

her eyes like playing cards. a gamble of moments.

dripping iciciles. tethered dogs. the end is weak. strangling under the haunt of freedom.

the beginning is merciless.

one pupil small. the other one large. dark and light each the same. the howl. slipknot strangulation. the sputter. partial hangings. toxic gas. the realization. powerless. surviving god by nickels and broomsticks.

calculating the distance between strangers and sex. in ratios of carbon to oxygen atoms. the obtuse  science of faces wasting so much beautiful skin. one eye opened. the other closed. near and far each the same.

a forest. a psychosis of choices. always autumn. always losing pieces.

a road. a funeral of faces. an autopsy of trust. always winter. always bleak. everything barren.

nothing moves. or feels. no one sees. or looks. a panic of open bridges. so much hungry water below. so much empty sky above.

two eyes. one vision. one blindness.

worn. frayed extension cords. partial hangings. used. vacant rooms. idling engines. neckties and twine like streamers. a cocktail of blood and vomit wakes her up.

one pupil dilated. the other refusing change. the world viciously invading. a barking dog in the distance. rapidly approaching. 

her skin dripping off. her voice melting. everything is liquid. nothing to grab. 

salvage the turn. stark echoes in submission. quantum loops and fetid variables. barriers in condition. skin coming undone. the brink. like empty boxes covered in ribbons and bows. the end. a hollow theater. all the actors whispering

chasing the stories. stumble and choke. the disease of want terminal. her soiled pillow sleeps close to her fear. bare terminals tease the electricity from tepid adjacents.

anticipating solid arcs. the conundrum is diffusion. flesh like onion skin. and stabbing eyes eager to trace. time is a mutiny against the individual. life is a fraction best convinced by pebbles and dust. either alone or together we are still and always separate. moments possessed by broader patterns.

layers. arrogant swine. in houses made of brick. taunt the wolf. measure the truth in steps from the edge.

long ago i would name them. curious victims in a relentless collage of murders. the woods. the breadcrumbs. a thin path. convinced it knows us.

she would count. manipulating the molecules. certain she was close enough to god. or far enough away from everything else.

she dies quietly. no songs. no flowers. every day a barter. of strangers and suicides. a choke of resistance. a thunder of humility. the color red. deep in the path. tethers and veins in an economy of flesh. lies and wolves and empty pages. the blue dominion of ghosts and orphans. a mortgage of surrender thick with the debt of change.

small doors. swivel the light. tease the journey. detours in contrition. wear her in thick drapes. cold windows. fetch the dark. in decimals and halves. portions of when. fractions of who. fetid gods audit their heavens.

faces like dominoes. fingers like syringes. tumbling. no cure. no medicine.

a circus of skin. full of clowns and acrobats and animals.

a little bit of death in her pocket.