change the colors. let them change us. 

the choice is always something much more than what we want.

shallow beds taste the sun. we are awakened by the remnants of our catastrophes. 

the walls narrower than they've ever been. the doorways choking on what we refuse to let in.

we've always been small. though occasionally perspective will pretend.

the taste of time is sweeter as it spoils. as our hunger solidifies.

empty dresses sink into the floor. wrinkled maps that lead to buckled corners.

the places where moments disappear.

we wear the pauses. frozen by our lingering doubts.

brittle windows tease the raindrops. even as the storm moves on.

 the road is cautious. worn by broken ladders.

the rain comes unexpectedly. arrogant in its certainty.

there's still time to measure what's behind us. even as we run.

narrow bridges cross profound divides.


the road is curious. devoured by our relentless chase.

the rain listens. a fading copper spy.

all corroded currency and unforgiven debts.

and lies we keep tucked under our skin.


little stumbles construct their maps. 

as heavy feet tease the sun. 

the edge bites its lip. 

as small raindrops accumulate into massive floods.

different words to say the same things. 

fingertips like broken arrows. lips like sand. 

time sleeps in gentle storms that go on too long. 

flesh. musty rooms with nothing inside. 

their voices. different thieves. same crime. 


the measure is a condition of the scale. 

gravity is a patient pendulum. 

choice fumbles. in the fever of want. 

the depth is a confession of the fall. 

different symptoms. same disease. 


the rope is soft. 

the knot is hard. 

everything else  is noise. 


the doll has stiff fingers. 

her dress is stained. 

her cradle is soft. 

the sheets are red.

the names that choose us are fragile beasts. all corners and leverage snarling at gravity.

the skins that we wear seldom fit. broken templates. all rain and wind slouching toward crumbling horizons.

the distance that measures us is a frail conceit. all stones and mud arguing with the wind.

the equation isn't constant. we are victims of our own fickle arithmetic.

we touch each other through our decaying masks. caressing faces long since dead.

we move through the world in cages made of contrition. 

impotent thieves. constantly stealing what's being stolen from us.

 when gravity whispers, everything listens.

the distance smirks. laughing at all the jokes we never told. 


rabbits run through darkness. undeterred by the many nooses.

every footstep wails, a deepening hunger. 


the fox chews on the wind. the scent a jagged razor.

the unknown is, who is the hunted.


when the numbers fail, we examine the skin.

for purchase on these slopes.

gnawing on the friction that almost kept us from falling.


the truth arrives in broken buttons and knotted threads. 

puzzles better left unsolved.

 trace the numbers. scrape the bridge. negotiate the defiant exceptions.

there's a total. an accumulation. that is seldom counted.

stories told in bent voices and broken skin. 

the caustic arithmetic of trust. bleeding its equations all over our bruised knees. 

time is a patient dictator. a lazy machine. gnawing on its own gears.

no waiting, she huffs. everything is right now. or has already happened.

the road bites down. as we slouch toward the horizon. choking on our defiance.

the distance tastes the zippers we've let come undone.

we're exposed.

only to realize. we always were.

 how quietly we withered. soft bones embracing the sun. no words. just voices too old to recognize.

prices paid without exception. empty songs. that linger. the poison of absent choices.

time keeps count. the ubiquitous measure of decay. a rotting art. life in curious tangles. and hungry knots.

light decides. taken from. and given away. always waiting to be seen. 

the humble perseverance of the angle telling its desperate lies. and the ugly flesh that convinces us to believe them.

the atoms have their weight. and gravity has its contextual velocity. like the hum of words as they break our hearts. or the strike of our feet as we chase the pavement.

either way. we're always falling.

 the edges struck each other. no force. just interference. a tunnel through the lingering chaos.

her fingers stumbled over his skin. blunt needles searching for some way to deliver their message.

she didn't know whether it was poison or medicine.


time assembled its machines. a long series of suicides. calibrated just so. each one punctuated by a resurrection.

the numbers danced. in their vacant cloaks. measuring all the pieces she had broken. she listened to the sounds. as it kept counting backward from nothing.

she didn't know whether she was lost or had been found.


the shapes were fluid. the colors whispered in soft words. the distance shrugged off its grin. an empty noose swaying in the wind.

she didn't know whether it was the beginning or the end.

the angle whispers. a cacophony of waiting. 
distorted by the devout confidence of gravity. 
and all the sharp corners where truth lies in wait.

tangled fingers tugging on broken zippers. 
undeterred by what's inside.

the process finds her abruptly. 
a sudden detour in a path that seems clear. 

all the colors scatter. 
until only the empty outlines remain.

a series of fragile monsters. 
negotiating with stale nooses. 
and grinning corpses.

the edge consents. 
a delicate promise of surrender. 
the sweet obedience of shame. 

we are artifacts. 
crumbs in the corners 
of the mouth of change. 

 we waited. lost in the conjugation of skin. the language of choice arrogant with complexity.

all those sharp corners cut the same as the dull ones. it was only the shape of the scars that varied.

the electrons danced in their orbits. chasing the absent observers that had created their paradox.

time she knew always kept its pencils sharp. even when there were no more pictures to draw.

the distance tied its knots too tightly.

she was much too patient. waiting for the string to break.

the photons traveled through the slit. wondering whether someone had seen.

hope is an unreliable narrator. of obvious stories.

she counted the edges. determined to measure the uncertainty.

time polished its remaining coins.

but the well had run out of wishes. 

i argued with the miles. certain the distance could measure me. 

time's sharp corners a defective scale. 

i sold my skin. convinced that its weight was smothering me. 

sorrow's distorted glass an empty stage. 

voices came and went. what remained was how i let him see. 

a pause much too similar to surrender. 

i spent the words with a curious consent. 

a bridge of conceit. a promise never meant to be kept. 

i solved the puzzle of a broken man

with a single piece. 

the machine falters. intense, yet impotent. 

defined by manic fairy tales.

the promise clenches. biting down on its own tongue. 

a parody of monsters searching for change in torn pockets.

the machine is both the bargain and the culprit.

the measure of swollen contrition. 

the dangling string on the runaway kite. 

the machine whispers. 

quietly insisting its power. 

the villain is obvious. the crime is precise.

dolls with their limbs scattered.  

their missing faces forgotten. 

the machine is the spark. choice is the kindling.

the fire is small. until it isn't.

the betrayal is always within. waiting to be discovered. 

cordial thieves gnaw on the bones.

the poison fluctuates between assassin and salvation. 

the curious arithmetic of exposed flesh. 

gravity idles. tender threads negotiating with deepening wounds.  

time consents. its voice simmering just below a boil. 

the dubious contract between want and circumstance. 

the distance sharpens its claws. just hungry enough to taste our skin.

faceless dolls scratching at shattered mirrors. 

places find us bound to choices long expired. 

feathers in a vacuum swaying on broken pendulums.

turn and persuade the void. loud corners arguing with silent walls. 

confessions in stolen smiles. touch's mercurial time machine.

the sour of absent folds. fading creases. missing poisons.

differential atoms. execute the changes. 

as if we are only a scale. measuring the weight of strangers.

stop and count the footsteps. the angles change. the depth is constant.

the light stumbles through our grief. suffocated by the clarity of distance. 

gravity yawns. unimpressed by our calculations.

pause and caress the edge. 

it's been waiting so patiently.

 shallow creases taste our skin. casual predators.

stalking voids we never knew were there.

the smell of time is both sweet and sour.

old clothes caked with blood and expectation.

change holds its breath.

a frail ladder caught between trust and shame.

choice is a curious artifact.

left behind by false prophets.

tripping over evolution's narrow geometry.

seduced by biology's furious math.

we wander within love's invisible walls.

stabbing at the narrative with broken pencils.

never understanding why we are lost.

the kitten chews her tail. the corpuscle takes a breath. 

time pauses. slick with intent. 

we feed ourselves to the nearest oblivion. 

arbiters of nothing. conspirators of conscience.

the rabbit discards his ears. the tendon closes its eyes. 

momentum chews its hook. 

grim with the evidence. we stumble into gravity. 

disobedient monarchs. in crowns of lead. 

chained to the miles. spent by the distance.

calculating choices. as everything combusts.

dutiful is the orphan. loyal is the thief. 

fickle is the decimal as it wanders through our skin.

the whims of broken numbers elegantly poisoning us. 

ugly as they sometimes are. the words have their protocols. 

salient angles tell their stories. the last drop of water in a leaking bucket. 

we wander through these tornadoes. screaming at the wind.

ripe infections in wounds that refuse to heal.

powerless deities in a paradise of our own invention.

the waiting convinces us. that there's something more.

the rain drenches us and we blame the sun.


the fairy tale stalls. all scalene triangles and unsolved equations.


we're small enough to see the distance. too big to understand what it means.

the universe tucks us into its pocket.

all voided transactions and loose change.

no refunds. 

 when the distance first tasted us, we surrendered.

scrambled stitches in time. more arithmetic than flesh.

worn by circumstance. gentle levers against our shame.

selling ourselves in the narratives of broken strangers.


the numbers assemble their weighted bridges.

seldom predators wag their tongues.

the distance ripens

and we are stranded.


the pieces we collect

too heavy to carry.


gravity grins.

as we sink into our footprints.


time licks its wounds 

while we tear out the stitches. 

 times plays its usual songs. pulling on all the dusty curtains we've left closed for too long.

the sharper exits settle their mileage. with broken zippers and empty pockets. 

she wears her name in tumbling confessions. listening for colors in the grey. 

skin swells with friction. all the absent words that have betrayed us. shed their scabs. 

weakening monsters rattle our beds. polishing their conditional cages. 

time spends itself on fractions of flesh. chewing on lingering debts. 

and we keep counting. 

long after there's nothing left. 

resolute is the pantomime. open skin sells itself in loose crumbs.

the humble touch of impotent choices. all missing keys and broken locks.

absolute is the choke of the bridge. as it crosses through us.

the numbers panic. the equation sighs. knowing we're solving for loss.

stern are the doorways as we search for a way inside. 

the walls stumble over the windows. the rooms swell with our absence.

places we know that have forgotten us.

it's only time's faulty medicine. making us weak.

it's only the monsters under our bed.

still growling.