the kitten tripped over her own claws as she began the hunt.

the screen was dark as she searched for prey.

the world was distant as she began to stalk.

all the numbers forgotten. all their faces worn away.

still young enough not to trust her luck.

against the pandemonium of chance.


the light fumbles against the sunset. struggling to last.

time tightens its knots. abrupt episiotomies to her indifference.

numbing lingering wounds.

she's hungry enough to struggle.

confident enough to surrender.

she paces. all anxious fangs and bitten tongues.

as the carcasses answer all her questions.

the time machine tramples its metaphor. stray cinema in the distribution of change. tomorrow threads its needle. absently mending the gap in inertia. 

the distance chokes on its last words. ambivalent confessions stumbling down broken staircases. 

the minute details color feverishly inside the lines. while dense amateurs attempt to edit their losses. 

how far becomes a reflection of how close it once was. 

againt the relentless momentum of conceit. 

the dismal corners tease their answers. stained pillows on beds where we can no longer rest. 

the time machine paces between now and then. a failed constant in the crippling perpetuity of flesh. 

the distance continues. a borrowed conjunction. too stubborn to care.

whether the quetsions it's asking can ever be answered. 

 

time has simple rules. but touch is more complicated. a long hallway dense with doors we must unlock. 

we spin on gravity's slender strings. a catastrophe of atoms barely connected by the diminishing forces of circumstance. 

skin has obvious parameters. but want possesses infinite variables. 

we dance on the decaying inertia of arrogant choices. a cascade of expectation erupting. 

every window shattered. every room corrupted. 

we push the edge away. tumbling embers negotiate the abyss. 

the flame is paused. 

we slither into the dicarded skins. and remind the imposters. 

that we were alive once.

if only for an instant. 

the box in the corner has my name on it. but it isn't mine.

the room that it sits in is otherwise empty. except for the shadows that it casts.

its door is unlocked. yet once you step inside, there is no exit.

its walls are unadorned. no one seems to live there.

but there are footprints all around it.

the box in the corner whispers my name sometimes. though it never answers when I respond.

it can't be moved. but I never find it in the same place that I left it.

the box in the corner contains everything. yet it's always empty when I look inside.

 she opened the box. unsure what to do with what it contained. all the fickle whims of absent gods. and the thinning leashes on which their sheep are kept. 

time grinned. its fangs well worn, but still sharp enough to break the skin. 

she gave her consent. to what remained of humanity's war. eager to witness its downfall. 

time limped forward. injured, yet determined. 

she collected the pieces that were left. carefully arranging each one inside the box. 

bits of candy mixed with bone and blood. and the unfinished math of fumbling promises. 

she opened the box. unsure of what it held. 

other than. the charismatic lies of strangers. and the crowded intersections that distort our path.  

she calculated the space. both the empty and the taken.  worn by the void. she conceded. 

the box held nothing. and everything. 

let the rain fall. tomorrow is the broken glass upon which we tread. 

time taps a vein and bleeds into our throats. a chameleon. a dictator. and a liar. 

let the rain fall. hope is the sickness that wears our faces. 

the machine bites its gears. as the truth unwinds.

choices form like icicles. 

hope is the stones in our pockets. as the flood calls our name. 

time draws its naps in our skin. a savior. a thief. and a prophet. 

reluctantly, we let it take us. and we are swallowed by the detours. 

let the rain fall. we're drowning either way. 

 take the glass. let it linger on her face. an unopened box.

its contents a condition of how long it's been waiting. 

who we are stutters. a graveyard full of perfect corpses.

and funerals unattended. 

the dress is torn. the child is naked. 

time closes its eyes. and the bruises fade. 

the doors close. but do not lock. 

we're only raindrops in someone else's flood.  

our hands full of melted crayons. as the colors stain our skin. 

we're only coins. in the fists of giants.

wondering what can still be bought.

with the little that remains.  

static kingdoms resonate. the machine chokes. full of fists and thieves. and all the empty bottles that youth collects.

the moment stumbles. the hours measure. the eternity in each sigh. the enormity of every small touch. the frequent bridges that take us there and leave us stranded. in places to visit where we were never meant to stay.

the edge of the fire. a grin of ash and a snicker of burn. choice like a rampant  fever tumbling  through my veins.

the untold mechanics of passion and rot. that auction our skins to the highest bidder and leave us bankrupt.

a perpetual paradox of wolves with their fangs turned inside out.

we're spent. in a thunder of when. a gorgeous indifference. the cautious colors of surrender. discard their skin. bleeding as loud as they can.

eager wolves gather their menace. like the able predators we have become.

the pistons hum. the engine listens. for fragments of the future. ample thieves fail the end.

sticks and stones build her. from enemies and lovers. the stale evolution of intimacy. borrows her youth. repays her in wisdom.

the contemptible sober. the moment fumbles at the edge of the world. a brilliant chaos. a smothering void. the desolate humanity of a world at war.

the wave accelerates. the fulcrum pivots. we solve for the remainder.

blue epiphanies arrive. in gusts of wind and frigid fists. the world is delicate. lace and shit. held together by wealth and madness.

she digs. she searches for the source. gravity humming in her head like an impossible song. a small fire stranded in a long winter. a weak lock on a heavy door. the world is stopped. unwilling, the cold is hot. an urgent flame defies the storm.

the winter comes. as it must. each year. in some form. to smother. to weaken. to humble. to narrow the path. to pretend the failing warmth. to prove what is lost.

worn by the edge. savaged by the circumstance. time is the needle. skin is the thread. the seams betray us. each breath is a villain. amd a prince..

the ample scars. the yellow angles. the permanent arithmetic of open wounds.

continues to subtract. long after all is lost.

stuttering lips cure the shadows of their cancer. but the dead are still the dead. and the world is still flat in some places. expressions like ladders made of rope. nearly impossible to ascend. templates of skin. anticipate the colors that seldom come.

those lazy corners never fail to surprise. with their contents. equally as empty as they are dense. with butterflies and their deceptive sneezes.

the years throttle. the hours combust. inside the engine of our traumas. skin like pages. breath like ink. and the words that would claim them. for everything we've never been.

it's the absense that's most appealing. the limp in her voice that sparks.

the flames have their own ambitions. but the ashes belong to us.

it's not enough just to be crippled. you need to break.

the machine has its parameters. the distance has its girth. lovers get lost. touch remains.

the forest breathes. a choking breath full of empty gods and trembling isolation. a feverish ladder of  of skin. offers her passage. a blunt fairy tale pursues.

the broken path. triangles stabbing the squares.

the crash of numbers. the stab of distance. divided by the tepid knives of arrogant circumstance. locks on the fence. wishes discarded with the key. the burden of hope swelling.

the longer strands. the hunters bathing in their bullets. the folds in the glass becoming more apparent. as i wrestle with the opportunity to see. small demons flaunting their big fangs. as if evil were real.

Tilting mountains. Sagging clouds. The surreptitious weather of living.

The deeper footprints. The thinner path. The fierce pandemonium of being. Wastes each shadow  searching for a reason.

soft hammers pound the hard nails. the lens trembles. sick with sight. the scale wretches. spoiled by gravity. we continue counting. all through the nightmares and the waking up. determined ghosts. still in the clothes they've lost.

shy predators press their fangs to the glass. the ceiling low and transparent. but not without its locks.

the hours choke on the geometry of flesh. a dissonant sybiosis. shapes and colors. maps and distance. a fever of when. like stones against the broken glass. no resistance. just empty spectacle.

the weather turns. the paper gives. creases and valleys. the stilted science of  surrender.

her purchase only a narrow shaft of moonlight. her choices more slender still.

the vex of time truant of the flesh. we tumble. arrogant in our freedom. ignoring gravity's chains.

vacant cellars boast their paper dolls and fraying ghosts. The empty arithmetic of all the strangers she used to know.

maybe i'm yellow and the blue is just imagined. he has his super heroes and i'm okay with what remains of fading fairy tales. perhaps i pressed too deeply on the fold. and the paper had no choice but to remember. the flame that lures the insects to their suicide.

the simple art of choosing. if it hurts enough. whether the shame still fits. stiff corspes and pliant worshippers of these tangled puppets.

maybe the stage is choice enough. the corrosive wagers of solitude. raising their voice. for the dead to hear.

lost breadcrumbs.and candy houses. boast the shadows. the empty syringe. the folding muscles. the surrendering skin.

a simple lever. fritcion easily solves her. a decimal place. the math of moments. cradles the hours in its fists. the punch. the frivolous guile of absent gods. burdens us all.

this vacant freedom whispers treason.

quiet thieves. whispers of lost. the stages of gone. come in careless folds. leave heavy marks. her wolf is shy. its fangs not yet tested. in neither the killing. nor the thick of the meat.

seldom maps trace her course. through amonia kisses. and perfumed corpses.

choices. the impotent gods that draw these paths under our skin. for the blood to follow. for the moments to get lost. hours like benign tumors. minutes to feed them the cancer. time has a face. as every monster must.

tutors in blood solving the sickness with more of the disease.

the blame becomes us. a tilting wall. leaning into the sun. a broken window. choking on the wind. freedom comes in  doses. like any medicine.

the rabbit coughs. hungry muscles tease the sun. the fall paints her. a series of colors. each one darker than the last. permanent ink on transient skin. a paradox of temptations. thick with choking zippers and blunted needles.

there are only so many words. for the lost faces that beseech. shakey steps to a paradise of questionable origins. the stilted arithmetic of lovers. as we subtract ourselves from the moment.

hot ovens hungry for witches. candy houses thirsty for lost children. paradise found in torn paper. and lost in the folds.

negotiating with the machine. the futile mechanics of touch. pretending to know. how shallow the drowning is. the trembling depths. of waiting. for the world to end.

dull pencils. a fairy tale of choices. giving names to the dead.

the fundatmental progression. wolf to pig. witch to woodsman. chains speaking. prisons still deaf.

we are only angles. soft corners in the skin. drawing their maps. in blood and semen.

heaven close enough to grab. but too slippery to hold.

soft sores on the lips of the clock. flaunt their pus. a simple infection of touch. slow to heal. the trembling steps whisper. gentle songs. of gnarled fangs and beaten predators. the end is quiet. and abrupt. for everyone. each of us.

pale cinderellas negotiating with their princes. imagining words are enough.

the long rope. empty at the end. unravels toward the sun. ready to reveal the black. in silent fits. small and large. as everything is  from one moment to the next.

lingering choices. the throbbing wrist. the deafening colors. tomorrow shouts. yesterday only whispers.the simple sin of silence draws its picture in the corpses.

short stories. long faces. alone finds her confessions. bleak as ever. bold as blood. the cuts not healing. the blade still eager.


the quiet surrender. rising. like so many colors. fading. her dismal catalyst. her discarded dress. the poetry of nothings. flesh sick with a fever of when.

these expired dreams linger still. the solvent aristocracy of flesh not withstanding. the shaking wolf with tender fangs. still devours. hungers the sames as any ordinary beast. a crest of skin. a tsunami of moments. a flood of birth amongst a chaos of death.

each lover to be worn. in button holes and zippers. undone. the fit of the hour dependent upon axiomatic encounters.

the fading bulb. tells its stories to the dim. the dull pencil draws its images deeper into the pages.

spoiled by the machine. eager to go back. negotiate with the hours and the minutes. carelessly adrift in an ocean of lovers.

tepid trials. the coin barely flipped. one choice divisible by a series of strangers. her ruptured future. more pus than blood. .

wear the thunder with a shifting serendipity. just barely loud enough to hear. voices turn colors. the scrape of the wind. nudges the shadows. as the stubborn glass fights the sun.

the idle numbers. this sweating betrayal. as the world slips away. meekly interrupted. rumbles of skin. like heavy clouds. too shy to rain on us.

every monster with a new name. every corner with an angle obstuse. the motor fumbles with the mechanics of idle. motion all it knows. time is a series of nooses. we are not linear, though our skin would argue differently.

time boasts its angles. and swelling circles. the shapes cast their shadows. but nothing is tangible.

pale fevers name the faces. in a long series of shattered tiles. heavy ladders fall towards the windows. marvel at the glass.

the cool distance. the crumbling numbers. the struggle against life's impossibe math.

the future. the dismal geometry of touch. quietlly calculating the volume of an empty man.

heavy scars like soup and bones. spoiling. the lost meat lingering. steeping in the foul baths of frail wars. the deaf soldiers of skin. and our words' blind warriors. perishing together in their thirsty apocalypse. patiently waiting. for our pencils to break. and our blades to bend.

the edges spoil us. with rabid temptations. consequence on the other side of dense walls.

sober songs put her to sleep. an invasion of flesh. more curtain than wizard. the fairy tale choking on the science. as the space comes forward to define us. so small we are. in the shadow of these crippled clouds. all empty limbs and weighted weapons. drag marks in the sand revealing the arc of our crawl.

quiet guesses. with their teeth in the bone. a thready rebellion of whispers and naked dolls.

the storm arises suddenly. the slumbering apocalypse. the end of the world in her fist. salt and atoms  dancing their last waltz. the space between us breathes. growing the disease that once was us.