Faulty Fulcrums

approach the intersection. wear the wind. in its terminal search. for something almost permanent.

tell the road. scrape the sun. pilfering colors from fickle bones.

the miles murmur. in their dwindling resolve. of missing bridges. and roads not spent.

the empty currency of promises.

the clouds hang low, but the rain doesn’t fall. and so we tempt the weather to let us go farther.

the broken lock on gravity’s fist. the frail keys that let us in. the colorful skeletons we call choices.

she says she knows the obtuse angles. that the math is loud enough. she says there are colors in the darkness. she waits for someone to see.

Algebraic Indicators

turn the frail. thin epiphanies wilt the gloss. a grey division dense with corners. parched angles thirsty for accessible protagonists.

the distance stretches taut. all sticky notes and rubber bands. sparsely punctuated by our grief and our euphoria.

the end is an absolute. every path there entirely random.

break the spin. integer conflicts emboldened by loss. muscle erupts with the reflexes of desire. the corrupt motivations of the body’s flawed architecture.

choke the sun. chew the rain. the stringent punch of possibility as it callously evaporates.

no open bridges. no places to meet.

just the place we’ve been. and the people that betrayed.

Funerals

break the slope. wear the storm. gravity’s consent suffers the fall.

the heavy books press the edge. dividing the distance by the weight of circumstance.

the miles peddled. sold and spent. a stark commodity among lingering famine.

we could eat the meat if we were willing to choke on the bones.  or we could forage. quell our hunger without the kill.

the sharper colors didn’t wait. they sunk in easily. and we were marked. all our bones soldiers in an ugly army. all our skin antagonists in a war of expectations.

we came to the intersection. but that was as far as we went.

I didn’t close the casket, but i dug the grave.

Hunting Season

I followed the u-turn. Confident in my pursuit. I wore the ladder. In sweet confessions. as the humble fled. and we were left with only the shame.

touch. a contrite chaos. thick with lingering absence.

the price of old skin rising.

tell me one more time how much it meant.

12

I found the flood too inviting. bored with raindrops.

It was the wind that convinced me. Direction is meaningless. The terrible toys of want and movement. All lightning and quicksand chasing the deafening sober.

The horrendous surge of belief that precedes. Plastic eyes and velvet fingers. Dangerously assuming they know. The integrity of aging bridges. The hunger of deepening holes.

The catastrophe was subtle. A series of many shallow cuts. Slender needles. Thick threads.

Decks shuffled. More bruises than blood.

Linear Topography

it was glorious. when the sun broke through the folds and lit up our skin. fingers like dynamite. lips like arsenic. i’ve never died so well ever since.

the stretch of angles. the sweat of condition. a stutter of choices as loud as our anticipation.

the color of tomorrow. all pulleys and whistles. spoiling the beauty of our madness.

something too soft. the choke of lingering clouds. after the rain is exhausted.

we are sharp. shearing against the friction of want. we cut. the logic of the blade meticulous. as the blood awakens within us.

Viral Companions

so where were we when it happened. the pucker of the string. the choke of the wind. open air. frail distance. the rattle of choices. tumbling through our skin.

where did we go once it was over. the prick of mirrors. as we see ourselves again.

the bridges clench. the geography trips. too far. but still no closer.

patient thieves. empty boxes. the science of want. all broken pencils and dried up markers.

still the picture is drawn. in coughs and fevers. in the persistent sickness that owns every thought.

Gathering the Stones

the world doesn’t end. the sky doesn’t fall. we’re the same. everything is. endless variations on useless mercies.

the wind bites. the distance all fangs. the journey shreds.  ripped liked paper. the map breaks. snaps and shatters. all the pieces. all the fragments. mostly claws. mostly scratches. still inside their box. both alive and dead.

all or nothing. the tragedy of hunger. the sweat of sober. like acid. burning through the scabs.

i slip inside the puzzle. skin creasing the horizon. places. the callous char of perspective.  as the flame solves for time spent.

the knowing. simple apathy. of vagrant lovers. pebbles wearing the storm. in blind epiphanies of skin.

the panic. the plague of hope. destroying everything.

Temporary Liars

change comes and goes. we are the only constant. the flicker of fear as we approach the interesection. the velvet grip of want as we surrender to the collision.

skin is blind, but it listens well.

touch is deaf, but its voice is loud.

the world stumbles. slouches toward a thin pencil mark on the horizon. we’re always going there. all depatures. no arrivals.

we name the places along the way. determined to prove how close we’re getting.

we count the raindrops. bits of thirsty hopscotch lingering on our tongues. the simple games our grief allows.

hastily we decide the winners. happiness all apple cores and pineapple skins.  softly we turn. in life’s peculiar marathon.

Nourishing the Echo

owned by the edge. the obvious arithmetic on broken pieces. the velocity of temptation. painting the void. in deep bruises and shallow confessions.

the corrupted cleave. as the skin breaks against the trauma. the worn pencils of bone and blood. that scratch their pictures into the body’s blunt canvas.

the roil of the wind. the grunt of distance. in the endless search for beginnings. the doll. her yarn hair frayed. her plastic limbs cracking. still she stares. with eyes that see everything. her body frozen in a petulant embrace of long ropes and short decisions.

spent by the plane. swallowed in the rise of road. diminished in the pinch of perspective. everything was far away until it wasn’t. stale bread and sour milk in every embrace. still the hunger prevailed.