The habit was easy to ignore. Couches in her thighs. Plump and soft. All my indents already embedded. The ripe of the heart. Like yellow dandelions into colorless wishes. At the mercy of our weakest exhale.

The giants with their baleful euphoria's. Stopwatches. Too certain. Of how long it would take. The hours on their hind legs. Begging for the chance. To chase that stick again.

Old men in their tight underwear. Oblivious to the comedy of their arrogance. Testing the meat. In drops of blood. The fire already willing to indulge the dead.

There's no delaying the epiphany. It comes hard and fast inside her hollows. She is whole for a moment. And then it's over.

Dirty linens collide withe empty skin. Discarded underwear draws its awkward sketches of what's left of happiness.

I watched some Star Trek and then I decided to boil potatoes. The weight of the pot more stunning than the items it professed to manipulate.

I've always been envious of transporters and holosuites. The first being convenience. When everything I want is at a distance. The second being fantasy. When everything I want is only nominally real.

I wouldn't mind a replicator either. They always replicated inanimates. Food and Machinery. But molecules are unbiased. Surely, they could've replicated beings. I would recreate the people who have moved me. That I have misplaced. And remind them of how unreliable science is.

I removed my potatoes from their pot. Sliced thin, yet still hard inside. An aggressive analogy for all people I've come across in life.

I remember this poison. Vengeful skeletons. Trying on our empty skins. The muscle romancing the bone. In fading equations. Stale mentors fumbling with their masks. Their eyes too big. To see. Through the tiny holes that we dig.

We can tame the robot, but not the machine. Insurgents with their guns around their throats. Spoil the seamstress in the midst of her gown.

What to wear now. The purple children. With their big teeth. And long handles. Reaching deep into the darkness. The blue boys. Suffer the girls. That they would protect. From all the gods they've come to hate. In this mania. Too simple. To ever understand.

I know this passage. This ambivalent oblivion. The clouds on their needles. As high as they can be. The storm relentless. More interested in how we break. Than when it might end.

I've labored through every dimension. Only to find out. The first one is all that matters.

Bad doggies. On three paws or less. Their tails chase them. In that common conundrum of physics. Where there is the key to the door, but the handle is absent.

She writes to God in long confessions. The dead girl. Wrestling with the locks on her wrists. The combinations in her head. Life she confesses arrives. Mostly in empty breasts and torn underpants. All my suicides. A mockery. Of walls. Long since demolished.

She kisses Satan on the cheek. As a thank you for so many wonderful sins. Touch is such a fickle paradise. And I've spent all my fingers on finding the zipper.

I have none left with which to open it.

The barking dogs. The thirsty balloon on its string. Slipping from a child's fist. Draws on the sky. In broken colors.

The angle by which you hit the drum determines the sound. But not who hears it.

I stop looking. I don't listen. And then I know. Which graves to dig up. And why they are dead.

God and Satan debating the blood I've spilled. To discover the keys. They each offer me the doorway. One an entrance. The other an exit. To the same empty room. I've always been in.

It turns. On icy flanges. The tortoise under her skirt sighs. Bland dialogues. Ripe with giants and beanstalks. It flows. Each valve opening independent of the next. The fairies in her underwear taping their wands back together.

As she writes to lion in vindictive pauses. The razor on her wrist. A scared child. In an empty basement. A soaring kite. In whipping winds. Her eyes spilling out in the frenzy of her contrition. The men. The statues on her breasts. Cracked and obvious.

The hour whispers of failed dialogues. A bit of red rights the lapse. She toggles that ever-present switch. Licking it. Like a fading lollipop. As the years dissolve into so many broken windows.

She travels the road. Too yellow with wizards. Her breath on the curtain hardly enough to reveal. The gears and pulleys in the miser's grip. That would tell us to keep searching for what we have always possessed.

She lets it go. Confident she will catch it again.

Sight tangles in small eruptions. The wet dream caught in her throat. Surges after the sand. In flat footprints. Time. That faultless dragon setting fire to every house.

Listen. To the drum roll of her thighs as her panties are removed. Life delivers itself to us in the such modest packages.

Count the hours in humble devotions. Vultures with their long necks in the carcass. The dead punch the window. With bloodless fists. Specters of time machine I never perfected.

They are skin. Eager lesions to stifle the flow of the open wound. They are panic. Sweet manias. on the fingertips of the sun. Brighter than I can bare to glimpse.

Now. In edible confusions. The hungry shadow choreographs. A dance so sour and intricate. I'd rather I couldn't hear the sounds.

The math betrays. Empty dresses. And missing feet. Lap the quicksand. We throw our stones and the window breaks. But I hear nothing.

The need decides. These feeble machines. Which will take us nowhere. The broken gears. Keep counting skin. Not moved at all. We wake up. In a crowded bed. Alone again.

The eager tortoise. With his paraffin paws. Draws novels in the sand as he walks. Feet on the swing set. Carving Obvious graves. The break. Her throat near to the glass. Solved shards. Perform a defiant Mosaic. Eager for the solvent. To break the bond. Arrange the blood. In sere alphabets. That cause us to remember. The useless temptations. For which there are no songs sad enough.

She paints the dark corner. Black enough to burst. Trying on all the empty gowns. 0f the cured. And those that would proclaim they are.

She chases the rabbit. Running as fast as she can. The mud barely keeping up. With parables called flesh. She swallows a chili pepper whole. Hoping he'll taste the heat in her. She closes the curtain. Convinced the world is gone.

It is.

A canopy of darts. Thrown and missed the center. She reasons with the moon. In bare confessions. The goal apparent. Convince this machine to listen. Though it it broken. Far beyond what she can ever hope to repair.

The corner. Bribing the dawn. With dull fangs. On the meat's tender parts. The flock. Rushing the gate. In deep boots. Thick with mud. Cozened paintings on empty plates. Calculating her slumping shoulders.

There was no sleep. Only variegated templates in the disease. Stout fingers on the button. As the timer slowly ticks down. There are no monsters. Nor any gods. To explain. The destruction.

Just little men with their hats on backwards. And the stairs they've climbed to find this cliff.

We draw. Pictures on each other. In wizened fits. Frivolous maps. To treasures already taken. Counting each coin twice.

She wears the ambush. It bright colors. The war at her fingertips. Her enemies her only friends.

It's only a life. Strangers at every corner with lipstick on their groins. Alarm clocks on their lips. The apple driven to its poison. On tall slopes of skin slick with science. The press of the flesh hard against the seam. The weight of the the glass as the ceiling looms above.

It's so bright. I can't see anything.

Her groggy thighs just waking up. To the radiance of careless words. The tornado comes suddenly. A feast of destruction upon which to gorge. Making words from broken letters. Drawing paths in fervent storms.

She dreams of viruses, bacteria and penicillin. The disease comes in increments. So that you never know you are afflicted.Her dress falls off her shoulders. As she argues with the cure.

She stumbles fearlessly. Through the dark of the theater. As the film ignores her. She takes an empty seat. Close to the screen.

Only interested in the end.

The pleasant villain in his loafers. Blinds us with a Kissinger smile. Eyes are expensive. Especially when you want to see the obvious.

I rolled over and accidentally killed the spider that was sleeping in my bed. His web of dead things scrutinizing the path. We didn't wait for an invitation. We just put on the trousers. In minutes. In seconds. The sloppy butterflies. Drew their pictures. On straining roofs.

The charm of evil manifests in so many aberrations. Flashlights with dead batteries. Empty rooms full of beds. The triangle trapped in the square. Trying to stall the math. On imminent equations.

Seeing doesn't come cheap. Sight is a charity. Skin is a profession. Each one finances the other.

She spoke. In electrical impulses. Frequencies difficult to hear. She fucked like an orphan. Searching dutifully for missing parents. The mattress on her chest. The building in her throat. As the city awoke. In the terrible yawns. Of monsters and bitter men.

Trying on the movie. A scene at a time. The macabre bargains of skin painting the windows shut. The corpse in her gown. Flirting with the ghosts. So many ways to kill myself. How I am to decide?

Flaunting the calendar. The flesh tends to choose for us. Which switches will activate. Those infamous portals.

Divide she warned. Figure on at least half. Presume a war. As the fig leaf move to cover. The things we thought we saw. Entertain the strays. As all these time lines extrapolate our flaws.

Red riding hood left her basket. For the wolf to find. Hansel and Gretel shoved the witch into the oven. But I don't know which fairy tale I belong in.

She coughs her words into the pages. Content with the disease. And wonders if the wolf's teeth are big enough.

Damp sheets spoil the song. As the poems tumble from the walls. Bent needles. Breaking off in her arms. The long gloves she wears. To conceal. The entrances.

She remembers the numbers. Though everything is lost. She constantly counts the eggs. Though her basket is full of holes.

When she admits. Is not if, but how. We continue tumbling as we are. Through this angular playground. Trying on the left over limbs of the all the mannequins that came before us.

Posed faces and plastic thighs tempt the paradigm to shift. Unfortunately there is still more. Even if we don't have it.

I grabbed the spider from its web. And asked it. How many flies have you caught.

Not nearly enough.

It was over anyway. I wasn't about to be born again. Flimsy skin stretching to resolve absent protracted catalysts.

We had our wars. Over nothing in particular. Fragrant gods in the perfume of men. Profound with hatred. Her breasts like old wallpaper. Waiting to be stripped. Her shoes greedy with mud. As the gravel took her closer.

We worshipped. We drew. On long arms. Eager needles. Apt to puncture. We measured her carefully. In centimeters of touch.

We opened the portal. As if it was ours to judge. We opened the portal. And it swallowed us.

That other world didn't remember at all. The mannequins. In its windows. All the hungry wolves. That went into the fairy tale.

Are still starving.