we approached the intersection assuming the light would soon change.
buzzing with the vivid dreams of flesh and crutches. all the arrogant turmoil that draws its beautiful pictures on the walls of our cages.
the world is always ending. that’s just what it does. but life is stubborn. we slouch onward. time’s razor slicing through makeshift maps. as the tumble of moments destroys our breadcrumbs.
so many pages. hardly enough ink. the center of the chaos. the edge of everything.
it’s ours to let go. own that release.
it’s a quiet collision. of victory and surrender.
the yellow angles. the blue edges. the pace of indecision. hungrily executing the algebra of flesh.
we are intimate strangers. loyal exclusively to our resentment. the tears of plastic dolls. in paper dresses.
the blind theater of want. the roar of crumbling bridges. hope’s tedious venom. still selling us its poison medicines.
the ugly distance warm under the gaze of the sun. we pretend to forget. how cold it is.
the evolution of touch. stumbling over love’s carcasses. the tattered maps. the distorted paths. soiled by expectation.
it’s loud she thought. as the corner overtook her. all paper skin and cocaine clothes. wearing the cost of choice in crumbling stones and weathered wood.
the world is full of small monsters in big boots. looking for a clean path through fields of shit.
take the angle for what it is. the stench of truth in an ocean of piss. take the math and let it break. a dull blade against my heavy bones.
chase the clouds as the rain pretends. stern on your path into the storm. wear the wind as your armor. wield the cold as your sword.
how easy it was to remember the vein. chase the needle. let the meat fall off the bone. the calloused arithmetic of appetite.
our bodies paper. our thoughts swimming in ink. no art. just faces i don’t remember. and those i should’ve forgotten.
the little stones. test the glass. broken feathers accuse the wind.
farther than i’m willing to go. closer than i care to admit. i taste the bridges. the rot of progress. as we stumble over what might’ve been.
i scream so you can hear me. you don’t listen otherwise.
the rain falls regardless of how deep i’ve gone. how distant the surface.
it lands quietly in the shadows of my footprints. softening each grain of sand. darkening every stone.
i move through the grey as it moves through me. a thick ghost. heavy with the miles i’ve collected. and all those left behind.
we say the words, but they are lost. empty needles in collapsing veins.
we take it to the edge, but still it’s too close.
i walk in the rain. waiting to be drenched. i walk in the storm. dismissing the thunder. unwilling to admit i’m caught.
we pretend to know. the gap between us. bent ladders and failing bridges. all the pungent colors chemistry confesses. after the flesh is gone and the bones forget.
telling our stories in yellows and reds. in the winter we argue with the wind. in the summer we bargain with the sun.
the seasons take us and turn us into clay. and we gladly yield. to the press of temptation. and the ache of devotion.
the body is a deep, deep well. the flesh a heavy bucket riddled with holes.
we wear the end in thin trousers and torn shirts.
impotent dictators in an asylum of sober.
it rains. we know it because we are drowning.
it suffocates. we know it. because we struggle to breathe.
the quiet ghosts peddle their words.
in broken stop signs and failing fulcrums.
it’s a lingering war. it’s an ugly victory.
to find solace in someone else’s grief.
the obvious lies tell us in seldom words and often weakness. frailty bargains flesh and blood. in the endless barter of expectation.
the low clouds linger. in the belly of when. measuring time in broken zippers and empty coffins.
the hunger spoils. the body rebels. as the end unfolds in a cascade of could have beens.
we’re all thieves in time’s estimation. rag dolls in the choke of hope’s tightening fist.