Expired Hope

the sun flirts with the rain. a curious romance.

the stranger calls my name. a lingering paradox. an unfortunate side effect of the mind’s time machine.

the colors are eager. the flesh is ripe. but the needle is without thread.

the distance greets us. a gentleman in a worn tuxedo.

we shuffle inside. to discover the party is nearly over. and we haven’t been invited.

we listen intently as the music fades. we stare quietly as the actors disrobe.

their dialogue disappears into the silence. their costumes lay empty on the stage.

we look back. searching for a marker.

we wade into the well. demanding those wishes be returned.

but we spent all our coins so long ago.

Cold Blueprints

the miles devour me. a brilliant obliteration.

what we remember can only be a fraction of the truth.

lifetimes come and go. in scraps of paper. in half written phrases.

we measure ourselves by those that choose us. we find our purpose in the expectations of others.

the clock is loud. the road is aggressive.

little tunnels in our skin. let the the wrong things inside.

choking on stuttering staircases. cut by shattered windows.

we’re only architects. we build our shelters. and wait for the orphans to arrive.

we don’t know how to distinguish the lambs from the wolves.

it’s the structure that we live for. helpless against what finds it way inside

Incredulous Apogees

I chase the miles that are chasing me. Indulging the paradox that flesh insists. I say no, though yes is what I feel. Because the truth can’t be persuaded.

we tug on these skins. little tethers on paradise. the harder we pull the faster they break.

the math is simple in the end. add, subtract, divide. nothing changes. the numbers stay the same. only the decimal moves.

each of us is a story. a hero. a villain. a victim. a beginning. a middle. an end.

we tell our story. it tells us. it’s almost real. until it isn’t.

you slip inside. your ink dries in my veins.

i wonder at the colors.

we marvel at the graves that time has dug in us. while feasting on the remains.

Saved By Sickness

skin hums on the frequency of want. all crackle and interference.

evolution now a shallow kiss. it’s all gone. everything muddied. nature disregarded.

now we are hunted. debts to be collected.

the sickness persists.

either it will save us or else we’ll destroy both it and ourselves.

Karmic Betrayals

the horizon is littered with broken kite strings and discarded swords. every warrior dies eventually.

life is a slow boil.

the mountains make us feel small. so we climb them. choices make us feel helpless. so we destroy them.

we’re animals after all. struggling to swim against the tide of our origins.

defiant as always. spitting in the face of circumstance. arrogance our only weapon.

we’re as fragile as we are strong. time gives chase. our only predator.

we run far. we run fast. simmering in life’s glorious marathon.

but eventually. we’re all devoured.

Inertia’s Kiss

we’re small. we say we know how much so. but it isn’t. true. 

we’re voices in a box. waiting. for someone to open the lid. for someone to see the corner in which we’ve hidden ourselves.  

i thought i knew. i was so sure.

i was wrong. 

it’s all a glorious tragedy. a panic of choices. more selfish than we care to admit. 

a lifetime kicking at those stones. watching the worms slither out from under them. 

we’re fragile as we grope in the dark for that elusive switch. 

but when the light finally turns on we see each other for the first time. and the truth always betrays us. 

i could forgive. i don’t want to. 

Dante’s Helix

 Memory is soft. All vacant puddles and missing fuses. We stand over them with our matches lit. Unaware of how to make them burn again. 

The hills say our name and we rush to climb them. The road struggles to chew the miles we’ve accumulated. It’s a dirty feast. It’s a condition of a hunger that can’t be sated. 

Places forge their landmarks in our heads. People burn their brands into our flesh. 

Trust is a fragile structure. Undone by the slightest storm. 

We drown in the colors. The yellow panic. The violet charms. We wear the walls. We dance to the rhythm of  the crumbling bricks. We grab at the rain. Determined to pull the sky down close to us. 

Aching at the pinch of when. Resenting the apathy of how. Steeping slowly in the fever of if. 

The jigsaw of touch a puzzle that has no solution. 

But we’re free after all. We are born that way. We made those choices long before they made us. 

Life is a slender thread. Full of wandering kites and stray balloons. It chases the wind. Barreling  into the sun. Undeterred by the impending inferno. 


we’re paper. full of the folds others have made.

we’re merchants. selling our goods to the highest bidder.

some transactions are profitable. others are a loss.

time stretches. a long rubber band. that grows tight as we run.

if we’re strong it breaks. if not, we’re pulled back to the start.

intimacy is all finger-paints and pencils. nothing permanent.

just a panic of want in too many colors. eventually it all goes gray.

the body is a predator. always hunting its next kill.

flesh is an imposter. as we search for ourselves.

Merchants of Trust

a simple touch complicates everything. 

we’re no one. until suddenly we belong to someone else. 

the fruit falls. ripening in the shadow of the tree. unbitten. it is nothing. 

the hours accumulate. fouling our lungs. 

it took years to learn to how to breathe again. 

strength comes in dirty needles. in soiled blankets. 

i forgave pain a lifetime ago. all that remains is the knowing. 

the lingering thieves pitch their stones. crippled kings flaunt their invisible clothes. 

it’s only real when i close my eyes and remember how it felt.

that blade tight against my throat.

every drop of my that blood in my body howling for escape.

Causal Conditions

 the patient lies are easy enough to believe. all dangling jewelry and finger-paints. on the wrinkled canvas of memory. 

tomorrow whispers. sweet songs. foggy windows in the vacant houses we once occupied. 

the moments collapse. sweet candy held too tightly in warm hands. 

flesh has a handle on if. it’s the why that it can’t solve. 

as if there needs to be a reason for any of this. 

there never was. never will be. 

we’re alive.

therefore, we’re always dying.