re-turn

amidst dark lashes and lilac shades the thought re-emerges like a firing-squad; the wooden fences i`ve built are as kind as unrequited love.

survival tip # 1

on the slippery scroll, inch toward the gap right below the musky moon, fill it with madness, horror, and profanities, then tiptoe away

what is the poetry of existence?

a construction of temples for and without the 'other'.

this day

the day announces itself over and over and over again, a nauseous turn spiraling and sinking, but i cannot hear it, feel it,  maybe, but for me it has yet to begin

just write

i can't "just write" when the sun is weeping at my fingertips.  i must first handle the carcass of words melting at my touch.

in the middle

all the lights are out. while we know that the life we construct is partly a grand fictional race between life and death that inevitably leaves sun-stained skid marks ; yet, it is guided by real people and events that provide some sort of stability, comfort, and meaning. with that said, i just had a monumental revelation--monument in ruins is more accurate--that i must disparage, diminish, decry, and desert my illusions that are not only empty, hollow, saccharine, but pathetic. i find myself an unwanted, hypersensitive beetle mangled in a spider's web in a bottle thrown off-track in the middle of self-otherness.

seamstress

it's not my place to comment or insist that your silence has left a mark, figuratively, of course, at first, but it has, somehow, climbed its way to the exterior flesh. you can stand there innocently with your hands in your shallow pockets and a half smile creaking, slowly, creepily, momentarily. you must know that you got me all wrong, i think. now, your blade-like silence is intoxicating, itinerant, illuminating, and irritating. i look around at the debris, notably the spectre of an echo in a torn note and unanswered letters, and hear the shrieking of moving chairs above and the melodic sound of a distant bird, realizing c'est mon histoire that needs some darning. you interlace your slim fingers and glance at the camera. charming. there must be an epistemological distance between us forcefully instituted by my incapacity to weigh my words, or, more accurately, to tame my cascading, ambulatory imagination. i'm certainly lying and untying a sinner's spinning story.