She ran. Away. Toward. She ran. Like progress was listening.
Between the trees. Under the sun. Against the cold breeze. The sound of her footsteps a petutlant music. Unwilling to forget the hurt. .
Farther places closer. Beginnings left behind. Her time machine malfunctioning at every intersection.
There are no quiet places. There is no destination. Just the taut ropes that connect us. And the knives we carry to cut them.
The light changes. The colors instruct us. Flesh remits. The body is payment on the loans from others that we take.
crippled birds nest in our heads. vagrant monsters run their math through our veins. we're too small. to see over the horizon. perspective is a villain. diminishing everything as the distance increases.
I couldn't wait. didn't want to. for their truth to become mine.
It's loud. the sound of loneliness. the stumble of feet over random stones. All the dead things we pretend prove life. In the vacuum of truth everything falls at the same speed. gravity is impotent.
We run. Trying to convince ourselves that haste is sufficient to traverse the miles that remain .
she screamed at the deaf flame. suffocating in every word. patiently waiting for it to hear. all the things she'd never said.
i can't pretend to know the measures of intimacy. nor the weight of their promises.
how foolish i was. in the throes of my weakness. how callously gravity pulled. on those loose bridges.
what could i know that i hadn't. what new pain could i sample.
mouth open wide. lapping ravenously at the poison.
she wore the corners. every angle sharper than she had imagined. she took pictures. finding her place in the desolation.
she argued with gravity. a thief. without anything left to steal.
it dwindles. the curious drizzle that dampens the coldest corners. it begs. in thundering whispers and stale coffee. it bleeds. it stains. the color of how it is and what it never will be.
the pace of then goes at a gallop. the speed of how gives chase. the structure is panic. the foundation is a conundrum.
it wonders. it surmises. like so much sober in a world of waste. fingers swear the fist, though only beggars remain.
the fabric stretches. taut over the swelling intersections. the zipper chews and sticks. smaller still as it opens.
there are words enough. ugly bridges to connect all these places that we think we've been. the vague electricity of a stranger's touch. that leaves us as hollow as the beds we've spent.
how far we've come. how close we get. trembling matchsticks against the fury of the flame. hope's crazed apocalypse bends and scrapes. ripe scabs for the picking. heavy buckets. all those little stones begin to sink us.
the words breathe. the paper creases.
the weather flaunts its whispering fangs. a catastrophe of skin. sour with irrevocable choices. the simmering conflicts of threshold and conviction. a pantomime of dead things.
she spent the road. a currency of solitude and indifference. she collected her wealth. in isolation and apathy. negotiating with the wind. as the storms came and went.
dancing to the hum of the soldiers. as the war insisted. coloring in the silhouettes as the future slouched toward its inevitable end.
the curious discipiles of schrodginer selling their stories to the highest bidder.
the posion in the box remaining a vague reminder. of the dwindling distance between chaos and consent.
an hyssterical repetition in the futility of flesh.
an hysteria of when. bleeding markers and blunt crayons count the pages. choking clocks and grinning echoes. wear her madness. in knotted ropes and heavy buckets. dense with rain.
the patient hammer. the methodical nail. as the corner breathes to speak.
simple soldiers in complicated wars. the angle moves to reach her. and the depth is lost.
the kingdom is manifest. the margins are cut. eager cannibals in a contest of scars.
he lied. he said i was all. the subtle larceny of love. all dynamite and cupcakes in the relentless thunder of time.
we played. tossing our demons and our angels. the simple games of absent lovers. the spoils of distance not withstanding.
the physics of how. in thin needles and viscous poisons.
the wolf comes and goes. a harvest of skin. a frenzy of when.
the bridges try to break us. hope in simple villains.
we pretend we can change. but the distance is our undoing.
the edge was subtle. until it wasn't. by that point no one cared. broken sticks and sober ladders. the awkward geometry of afterward.
purple dresses with missing zippers. her voice all right angles. tomorrow comes in buckets of skin. a feast of parasites and parabolic panic.
penetrating the seasons. in small strokes. a crisis of moments. the greedy assumptions of touch. like a relentless pendulum. counting down to a change that doesn't come.
the small numbers swell. deflated balloons float carelessly into their destruction. practical tyrants carve ladders in the snow. circumstance continues to paint by the numbers. we gaze above, but continue our path below.
a curious submission. assembling our sticks as we do. into the monsters within. a ludicrous endeavor. to find a skin for these empty bones.
the journey is hungry and soft. she's absorbed by the distance. a number in a sequence. consumed by its function.
tempted by gravity she teases the fall. lured by the current. skin all rhetoric and detours. shallow steps. take her down. to the hysterical increments that draw the maps. and the manic integers that determine where they start. where they finish.
she doesn't remember. can't claim the angles nor the math. indifferent numbers paint their crying clowns. on a crowded canvas. she swallows the distance. chokes it down. pebbles and piss. much sweeter than she expected
the variables remain. unconditional. unresolved. a hollow structure. a skeleton of matchsticks. a friction of skin. an impatient host. unwilling to breathe again until she has found the constant. where the hysteria pauses. surrenders to the current.
stubborn capillaries. insisting a path. in an ocean of blood.
It's near and it's far. That arrogant paradox lovers call life. It's a beautiful lie for someone else to tell.
A lot of waiting for the surface to forget. For the stones to find the bottom.
the stutter of time as it chokes on these reflections.
the water without depth. the wind without reason. as time yawns to swallow us. a carnival of skin. a parade of gawkers to sample the madness. and the quiet clowns left to catalogue what remains of the circus.
the water is still shallow. after all of these years.
a deaf song. a broken crutch. gray colors choking the margins.
i don't know. never have. can't sense the distance. can't judge the weight.
the empty penetrates. bent needles. dry syringes. humble diseases. linger on the end of her lips. all library paste and old magazines. alone becomes us. in rained on parades and faded colors.
it's cold. all yellow nightmares on barren roads. all eyes. no voices. just angry stares.
it's dark. chasing gravity through back doors in the sun. seldom villains and absentee heroes. no path. only the dying echo of the life that came before this one.
it's hot. everything is white. blurred. and chaotic. flesh collides. words fall apart.
it's bright. so loud. all hungry crows fighting over the carrion.
the edge is sharp. it draws blood as I approach it. the edge is elegant and hopeful. ripe with so much falling.
a seldom war. a constant enemy. the stringent paradigms flesh imposes upon its mortgagees. all satire and betrayal in the most stunning of suicides.
the soft corner. the weight of the shadows as the angle's grip tightens. learning. the frequency of the void. the gentle sting of gravity. ripe with a static of falling.
the room. a kiss. a stale surrender. anxious atoms on their violent path to division.
a brief conflict. the moist of her thighs and the sere of her lips. she wanders. lured by freedom. smothered by distance.
gone too far. always. searching less than finding. the anxious roads that let her bleed. dull needles suckling an already empty vein.
the slowly opening bridges that give way to the tall boats. the quiet lies that convince us to let those strangers in. it's just the wind. stirring its cauldron of spells. it's just life commiting to the edge.
maybe the colors stutter. maybe the words stumble. all truth is the trajectory of alone divided by the velocity of skin.
we are all questions drowning in the mechanics of choice.
the distance swallows much more than it unfolds.
her tender arrows. her sharp scars. choke the on the moments.
a dark theater. still echoing the play. long after the audience has gone home and all the actors have left the stage.
patient thieves in their torn raincoats. trace the edges. careless slopes and thoughtless angles. the fading pastels of her want. the persistent stabs of regret. through the thin paper memory presses toward the sun. these shaky lines define us. these hollow edges rage for depth.
the stubborn inertia of a touch. wags us forward. limp and derelict ghosts perform the calloused rituals of life. red candy lips. sweet and sour with dissipation. cold pillows. smooth with entropy. barking dogs. fierce with circumstance.
the end is always the beginning in these scenarios.we struggle against the linear. Caught fish. Gills to the sun as the water mercilessly recedes. intimacy is always a fool. distance always a tyrant.
the thunder waits. for the storm to catch up. as we simmer in our discontent.
we wither in the desert. blood shadows. bone darkness. drowning in it. parched, yet unwilling to drink.
the theory of the machine. the peculiar pendulum of the heart. as it sways us. in every direction. and takes us nowhere.
everything is loud and bright. a fatality of words. this illness that is life. screams in pencil. streaks of panic scratching at the stones in her lap. the truth manifests. in her soiled skirt. and her bruised thighs. the spectacle of choice.
fetid docents manage the masterpiece of touch.
her voice. an hysteria of when. paper bridges resenting the rain.
the distances they span. all whispers and chokes. drowning in the absurd ironies that make life our own.
dying slowly in the soft pillows addiction provides. dissolving easily. in the acid storm hope insists.
fractions. adventure. myth. basting in the spoils of time's arrogance. obvious wounds. and the ghosts that can't be seen by them.
braids. pony tails. knots. an apocalypse of vanity. all partial lies and gutted fish.
the end of the world comes in slivers. the edge of the paper shaking its fist. distant mountains try on their wigs. as if we can decide. or even begin to measure the depths.
barking silence. relative scabs. tender bridges stumble toward the edge. trembling fists grip the math. of broken soldiers in hollow's war.
the hour stumbles over the irony of when. the sober clenches on the serendipity of how.
swept away in a waterfall of skin. drowning is a blessing.
the flow exceeds us. we are footnotes. in stories alreayd written. curious jack o lanterns. dug out, yet still aglow with the flames of our crumbling bridges.
the last plane. as it strokes the horizon. the sole division. as we consent to the deficit. a fraction of lies. a mortgage of moments.
a lifetime of debt.
her steady commitment. small hills survive by mimicking mountains. her timid resistance. snowy sidewalks wear the cold in fading footprints. we make our paths. knowing time will erase every step.
we choose to remember
we are predator. and we are hunted.
lost in a contest of flesh.
a summary of regret. poison perimeters. dwindling edges. skinless dolls flaunt their bones. sexy skeletons stumble through the broken choreography of trust. a series of brief wars that spill into a greater conflict.
she promised me when. at a time before she knew what it could mean. she gave me then. in exchange for the long needles and the small knots. a murky circus of transitions. she was the clock. for the pace of all gods in this marathon of discontent.
shuffling the years. wagers and bluffs. win and lose us. the narrowing plane. the shallow cutss. broker this wealth of skin. as if it is ours to spend.
a familiar hunger. an easy submission. an earnest fairy tale. that always ends in loss.
the hinge surrenders to its arc. the space. the thunder. of curious happenstance. she chisels. picking at the edges. seldom corners manipulate the scars. the texture of when. the sting of how. the subtle collision of circumstance. that solves for if.
stained dolls. in their open dresses. the sober geometry of all the things we want. dense circles pounding on the diameter. weak numbers struggle against the sway of experience. the fickle of lust. seldom surrenders, but is always lost.
an ambush of certainty. the rigid grin of want. stabs the moment. in a murder of touch.
the hours bite. indifferent fangs. they swallow. without hesitation. mired in the freedom of monsters. small in the shadow of when.
the years diminish. we slip further away. nothing changes, except us.
choices... nickels and dimes. eventually add up. the end so certain. yet the beginning still to be determined.
a series of sharp hungers. each more urgent than the last. a panic of love. much better starved than fed.
the cold forms its thin crust. brittle nails struggling to hold together rotting wood.
the winter arrives anemic, yet heavy. a stained blanket. ripe with urine. and dying things.
time stops at some point. or rather it gives up. crumbles like so much stale bread.
the walls wither. the hours wheeze. this cancer they call life consumes all the living.
the brittle boards pretend a floor. the choking flame imagines light. but the darkness knows our deepest secrets.
time whispers in the gnarled folds of broken skin. wounds still alive long after the scars have smothered them. time doesn't heal. it only forgets.
the stir of gravity. like butter. melting into blood. the acquaintance of skin. the perjury of touch. tightening its knots.
wondering atoms reach for the edge. of an ever expanding universe. the nucleus drifts from center. and everything is chaos and ecstasy. the weakness summons her. a raw king naked at its throne. an empty power. and a despairing fury. slip under her skin. to grow their famine.
The words wince. Against the thickening cold. The woman deliberates. Where the weather ends and she begins. How much distance is too far to go.
The winter approaches softly. Arrives in a scream. She flourishes in the dying. Gravity croons its tender ballads. As the ground clenches hard. The bottom seduces in missing skin and scabby bandages. The elementary physics. The random cuts and bruises. Of willing victims. And reluctant villains.
An empty carousel at the center of the world. spinning slowly. a long courtship with frail demons and asthmatic gods. at last reaching its suffocating end.
Straw houses betray, And even the brick kind. Eventually fall.
It's the poetry of the circumstance.
simple stops. in the traffic that endures us. obvious pauses. in the skin that wears these eager archers. bones break. that is what they do. when confronted with the agendas of wandering ghosts.
clouds and thunderstorms. on the edge of when. the paths of strays. like broken kisses. and little dips in the fence.
her touch is eyelashes bleeding. knowing strangers. in their other skins. wearing the void like ball gowns. dancing to the rhythm of the silence. time's beveled corners. as blunt as ever. failing to indicate any course. the sting of the remedy is far worse than the sickness.
the sober of her devotion overwhelms. fetid despots of bone and blood assemble their armies. torn jigsaw pieces tender their puzzles. in deep cuts and worn folds.
the light turns. the bridge gapes open. we yield to the inappropriate mechanics of touch.
that is our strength and our burden.
the primer. the scrape of gravity. the freedom of falling. the rain. the heavy bucket. full of holes as it is. to hold. or to glimpse. the fury of when. time in pleats. the world in bends. blunt bandages on festering wound. the fever of if. like knots in broken skin.
time's casual innuedno. numbers scribbling on the base of the brain. its trembling cycle of repetition. dark. light. dark again. the bald mechanics of when. in a fury of subtraction. a seizure of moments. always hungry to swallow us.
wearing the needle. murdering the monster. as if we were once whole. or could ever be again.warm graves. and the sharp knives that dug them. the soft horizon. the sloping surrender of touch. as the words confess us.
a checkboard of lovers. pretends the queen. a backgammon of touches. barters her breath.
the end overwhelms. tortoises retrace their steps. a slow race backward to victory. falling feels just like flight. without the heavy burden of wings.
she reasons with the drug. slopes in the darkness. trembling doorways.
it's everything. it's always been that. it's the whole world. in the sneeze of a butterfly. it's time. hydrogen atoms defying gravity. triangles doling out their limited degrees. it's the science of how. whispering loudly in a universe of ifs.
concrete fingers try to bend. to grasp. but only break. they keep what they've always had. but fail to gain anything new.
closed eyes save their sight. against the blinding of the eclipse. but miss the epiphany of overwhelming darkness. they're all just stories anyway. vibrating flesh caught in an emotional sieve.
there are no wars. there is no army. just people. trying on bits of weather and hunks of distance. there's just the void. talking to itself. in broken crayons and burnt matches.
there aren't names. we forfeit such privileges. there aren't friends. we have other definitions for those occasions.
