Well Done. Burnt.

Use a crayon to edit me out. For my celestial insides are orbitting too fast. They should not be published. My flap waves in the wind whilst the careening shipwreck of a life continues to confound. It's a white flag for a feeling. It says I give up. These tiny bodies are squishy and give way easy to the touch but to no avail. They still scare me when I feel them move around and making plans. I truly am sorry for what I said but I apologize as the dramatic drips off me like pinstripes. The tommy gun kicks back in a mist of pain and pink and those figures in the distance fall indinstinct amongst the tent sites for the wicked and abandoned. I can't seem to squint hard enough to make them out; the daily inconsistencies are the ever strengthening force of the blurred life. Each day keeps me wondering how to live. I know that it is a step by step process, this binding of the hands to get work done. Yea I know that it's continuous and winding. But there must be a chart somewhere that predicts the eliptical path each piece of myself will take. It can't just be random can it? Or are these tenuous journeys of essences just random flashes in the night sky? Is the sky falling just to reveal yet another endless dark expanse just behind the previous one? The curtain could be burning down but the audience just applauds enthusiastically as the flames reach the first aisle. I'm inside a building eating itself up and I can't help but cheer. I love it.

Thrasher: On Death and the Clean Slate.

Within his mind there are two states: one where he is dead and another where he is vomiting all his past out upon the clean slate. It's either one or the other for him, posthumous or empty. There he is: Thrasher. A writhing bit of this world shaped like a human and wrenching the depths of the comic carnival up to the surface for the ooooooo's and aaaaaaah's of the crowd. His countless chins tell a tale of mispent youth where motorcycles ushered in an era of LSD mind benders and screaming aside bonfires to the pulse of a boombox emitting static and fog. He wandered the desolate landscape of a stricken valley. He transcribed an account of something unspeakable. He tore his hair out at the roots for lack of a thing to do. And his skeleton was left behind because the slate just wouldn't stay clean. It was marred from the beginning. He was already dead to it. So this duplication of selves recieves it's reason through the trials of a man with a passion all burnt out. Thrasher is a tough sack of shit and he lost his pension when the warehouse collapsed. But that was just a premonition. To him, it all happened before. The naivete and the disillusionment are waking dreams. Within Thrasher is the coming together of the babe and the geezer for one last wrestling match. And this bout? Oh this bout is the one that determines who gets to pin the Death Notice on the front door of Thrasher's gut.

Yes this is the Way.

Beaming down from heaven, a globular iridescence feeling green but with orange teeth. My Entrance Exam. Where my tears are meaningful and the dark umber hues of this room are shades of what is to come in their life. Dangling wooden limbs attached with coils of copper slowly emulating the movement of an alien with hands like night lights. A halo splashing a tawny glow of verdant neon upon facial ridges and cavernous wrinkles. This room is multiple choice. The fourth choice is all of the above and it must be the truth. A Number Two Pencil with a single leaden eye scrawls passionate essays of listening skills and comprehension; a yellow cyclops on a stupid rampage. But the meaning is lost and there isn't much to be said of this simple test that will determine my entire life without even asking what will become of me in my day to day journey through this pretense. Here: You hold your arms this way, with your wrists loose and your hands dangling. Here: You let those oceans swell past your eyes and drip endless and salty down your bright cheeks. Here: You paint your mouth like fire. Here: You are on the verge of passing. Passing a loved one in the street. Passing the crevasse where the fauna breeds and has it out for you. Passing into another whatever it may be. Passing the point of no return: An Entrance.

All the Rest Mixed Up.

And here are the pieces of ourselves arranged in a pleasing manner. So that we can feel ourselves pull slightly. Draw tight the strings of our hearts and knit them together. A pattern that will strain each part of that emotive muscle equally to avoid emotional bankruptcy. Tie ribbons around the ends of each finger. Attach the loose ends to the trembling branches of the family tree so that we will know our way through the brambles of history and fate. Set fire to the funeral pyre and let the light reach into the depths of your chest all taciturn and delicate. Don't bear the weight of the world alone while the birds dice the gray canopy of clouds into manageable sections with rain for tears. Tend to these pieces with a simple bow upon your head: your mind all wrapped up like a gift to the one who gets you.

Dreams of Space Child.

When he was a child he had facial recognition surgery and they sent him up way too high with a knapsack full of tired ideas. The dishes were all dirty and his mother spent hours scouring the silver with a look of shock on her face. For there was her child blasting off into oblivion with teeth like razors. The moon spilled across the night like a glass of milk and still she cried; spilt milk be damned she couldn't get over this. Spatial trinkets floated about his withered little suit of clouds in zero gravity. He wakes up with the landlord wailing on his door. Sitting up in his soiled bed the detritus of his existence surrounds him like an interstate gut splatter. Where was his mother now? Had he ever returned from the empty vacuum of space? The answer is hard to come by when he reflects upon his life. He sweeps the kitchen floor and avoids the clock while the teapot reaches a boil. Ever so slight are his steps across the expanse of this rented room. As if each step was another statement in an argument defending the worth of his life. He looks through the skylight and has a panic attack remembering the look of the lonely planet we all live on through the space port as the rocket swept him far away.

Coal Condenses Into Diamond.

Their pieces are of the same puzzle but the pieces are too many and doused with lighter fluid. Their arms intertwine in crooked serious paralysis as a match is held between his thumb and her forefinger. Just as when they first looked into each others eyes; that drop of a feeling like the piano falling thirteen stories with a cerulean backdrop of pulsing strobe skies fast forward. In love for the first time and the last, just so quick that it couldn't be taken for anything but an offensive measure. Strike anywhere and yes, that is how it was. Everywhere they went their love was aflame engulfing the maps of their cities and homes until every urban silhouette was on fire. There was no escape because they had it all and nothing would suffice for they would tear it all down. And their map became ashes. And their story became legend. And their loneliness became the past. The search party looking for completion found the orphan there in the woods and we're holding each other close and it's not all in vain. Years dispersed the histories over decades and there they had a life and a marriage and a black mirror omnipotent told them their lives were predictable. And like a trumpet falling on a flat note after the solo where the musician just stopped having that blue glow after quitting the heroin, the heart steadied then hiccuped and it didn't have it anymore. Something unnameable was gone and it was irretrievable. Their love is the lighter fluid and their fingers work together to flick the match. With the flame dropping down upon the pieces their lives flash before their eyes and they are there in there forever. Their romance was a run-on sentence and they will be edited down because the lives of the irrational will be documented in a logical fashion and the smoldering remains of this thing that was a puzzle completed and taken down will go down in history as something digestible and succinct.

The Undoer.

I feel you under there getting the bills paid and
riling up the gold fish so that it continues its lap about the bowl to the cat's amazement. And I feel you under there giving the tightness to the spider's web and shaking the air molecules to rattle the leaves of the tree upon which the spider glides and catches the dim recollections of a short life within the glimmer of the fly's eye before wrapping up the prize for sustenance. I feel you under there. Taming the word in order to break up the long term relationship between understanding and action. I feel you under there letting our mindless actions deviate all our conscious wants. Stacking the blocks up very high married blind and garishly fine, up there in the sun and stars and moon. A green diamond up there. A simple mark upon my arm to let me know I feel you under there. A symbol of the knowing, the gone and done it, the tell tale sign, the lessening of dread, the yes and no, of the feeling of you under there. Oh, Undoer undoing everything to make it seem like where we are isn't where we want. Undoing the storm that passed without event to instead drop gracious lightning bolts down on the birdhouse that was the object of affection for the single woman who stared longingly out the picture window at those cardinals and bluejays streaming through the clouds like streamers of the pageant. Undoing the work of the earthworm and leaving the soils barren where we can see that what we do here is futile until there is a realization that we are on a path towards our own undoing. I feel you under there and it tickles.

Paisley Femme Fatale.

Can she be like Anne Oakley reigning supreme upon a braying steed slathering with comic books shredding down upon the trails browning and brittle amongst the bridled adolescent dreams of the boys fallen asleep at last watch. Or could she be like tin girl soldier all arms and legs awkwardly snaking one skinny limb around the corner to carefully replace the cosmos to their sense of order without the penny eyed young man noticing. A perfumed doll of glare and shadow is perched upon a mountain of lacy white pillows and bloody neckties. I'm easily wounded. Her eyeliner's the fur of the puma. I sit with a frilly smile embroidered on my face with the past laid over my brow like a shroud. I could've just said I'd let her take her time. I could've neared the wreckage with the steely gaze in my eyes bludgeoning my surroundings. I could've acted for the Oscar and held the broken hope in my hands like an award. But I rode off into the horizon of a bottle for six months and came out on the other side of the Pacific rim. And the doves are swirling with the future in mind. The dark shapes are waving white sheets and darning the socks that would've been used for the bandits costumes. The ones that would've taken everything. They didn't and I've still got this grin up there where the emotion comes from. They didn't, those bandits, take everything. The paisley kerchief hanging there slack does its slow bobbing in the wind and never unveils the lover that shot me through the heart. Surprisingly, life is going on and that lofty idea still lingers undisturbed and waiting to happen. She waltzes slow through my dream, waiting for me to find her and finally fall in love.

That Man's Dreamcatcher Earring.

Don't look into that dreamcatcher earring too deep. Inside that tiny red jewel lies all the nightmares that tried to get into that man's mind while he slept with a stuffed lamb clutched in his arms. Inside there is the tearing of a universe where the love and loss all come at you together. Arm in arm the insane and the destitute red rover across the yard of your childhood with eyes aglow and dripping iodine stained brown with sadness. The orange streaks ordain you into the ministry of memory loss and catatonia. Your madness roams out upon the dearly defiant desert a thousand miles long and your dehydration escalates into a frenzy while the vultures whisper loving tunes of digesting your body rotting. Your mind is carrion and you are trash floating in a gutter should you look too deep into that man's dreamcatcher earring. These desolate feelings are why he wears it at all times, this stylish dreamcatcher earring. Should he fall asleep, he'd be protected from the cacophony swirling about in the cyclone touching down at this moment. Should he take a catnap he would not be the mouse. His protection is a guarantee that there is a black death rearing it's ugly head for everyone lest they erect a wall about their souls to hold back the chorus of massacre and pestilence. Yes, it seems melodramatic, and yes, it is. But what if it weren't overreacting? What if this man's stylish dreamcatcher earring was the only thing holding him from oblivion? The crimson jewel like a pulsating heart catches your eye for a reason.

Empty Gray Landscape.

On the road westward and trying to keep to the left where the ocean stands silent like a 1920's picture show; black and white and cold. Ashen gray, we all look into everyone else's eyes and keep our lockets clasped with our hearts betting on the failure of the other. Our trip lacks a sense of direction. He's self conscious and she is immutable and the other stands upon the outcrop of tossing sheets like clouds in negative relief. Developing mute tones in the dark room they are three little personalities without working senses. They just want to keep moving for the possibility and hope of it all. Their lives are all wrapped up in folds of taut skin enveloping them like crepe paper. They taste acrid. They would be bitter if they could feel. They are like statues and I have a feeling it won't end well. Because the ocean has stopped and they three stand on the shore in a freeze frame. The reel has stopped and the crowd breathes in a guttural breath of stale air. A realization spreads across their collective consciousness; it's like a mirror breaking. The history was written for failure, for neither side winning. For the trenches to be dug and the stalemate to continue even after the tide has ebbed. There is no way out, these stolid figures in profile seem to say. The closed sign swings in the window of the teller booth while the stork stands there with an infant swaddled in plastic sheeting looking to make a deposit. Looks like another orphan is born through gone-for-broke transactions. Looks like we'll just carry ourselves onward down the road ever westward. Those three sculptures just look forward enrapt with the silence of the sea just there no matter how improbable. These words are unraveling and I'm not here to make sense of them for you.

An Absence of Choice.

He awakens in a sweat and looks in the mirror. He is looking more and more like the man who is doing it in Mulholland Drive. It's because of that poor thought in his mind that keeps coming back. Like a lazy susan in a diner stooped upon a dead highway; those sickeningly sweet desserts revolving, coming back again and again. Here is the idea: there is a woman out there with no face. There is a woman out there with two scalps and no face. There is a woman out there without eyes to look into, without tongue to form syllables, without cheeks upon which tears spill over; with none of these but a personality like a whip still. This plagues his evermore tormented soul and he awakens over and over thinking of what this could mean. What would become of him if should she walk in the door with hairstyles done up well. If she should storm in full of spite and begin her diatribe on his worthlessness; all these words pouring from a hole, an absence. All these arguments irrefutable due to the untraceable nature of it all. How can he defend himself if there is no source? If there is a black hole where there should be a target? No, he won't do it, he'll just sweep the iridescent blue box into the soiled paper bag and he'll keep her in that fantasy where she is falling in love and where the suicide and murder has yet to occur. He will be the torment, he will be the ghost in the hallway. That difference between loss and gain is blurred when there is a choice. She'll stay back with her visage like mist and he'll continue pacing in the alleyway wondering when the wall will crumble to reveal his plan.

Sunken Rainbow Voodoo.

I thought that the dark arts would give me some sort of perspective on that which stalked me in the night. Waking upon cool nights with a lightning bolt teasing my chin, my hair prickly and brazen, my eyes dance fantastic. My toes are lost years of my life keeping me afloat. My ears lean out over the chasm of the sonic landscape like tormented antennae. My skin is a blanket of oil billowing out over the surface of a sea unknown and uncharted. All the organization under the surface fights and breathes and longs to see the burning coal of a sun once more before sinking to the depths beneath. My hands are crooked gangsters screaming down lost highways towards the nuclear glow teeming upon the horizon. They lost their motivations to two bit bookies years ago, their direction askew across the torment of a bet that took everything. My feet are tired junkies spilling their guts in methadone clinics, unable to take themselves anywhere. The needle crowded with disease looks like a parole officer in the effervescent moonlight. My brain looks out across the jagged water from the lighthouse with a toothpick hanging from its mouth. The toothpick is a method of acting that helps to lose a sense of being. And two voodoo dolls just fell down from the heavens. And the darkness gathered and I felt a pitch in my belly like an ocean's swell. And a rainbow broke through the clouds and a pattern of reds and browns categorized the landscape before me. These teeth are men with batons beating back the riot and these eye sockets are rubber bullets leaving welts. The blood rituals are the only things keeping the daily melodrama from wreaking havoc upon my normal mind. Each of these vestiges of sanity, these sunken and spectral dolls, are like delicate strings holding up my swaying heart. The meaning of the ceremony is lost amongst the feathers and claws and tired moans.

The Grief Family.

They remember like it was yesterday, The family Grief. The tired moments waking up in the dim twilight wishing it was morning, getting the coffee ready so no one collapses in a waste leaving skid marks on the pavement of the kitchen floor. The grandmother keeps time with a cane across the swept tiles and pretends that these people were what she had hoped of her loins. The mother awakens with a gasp and stares into the depth of the ceiling without remorse. The father gives a sideways glance to his faithful wife and knows that today will bring nothing. The young boy rolls restless in the sheets keeping time with his ever present heart. The toddler writhes in his onesie feeling an absence unknown like the coming of an entire life without premonition. Something like the inescapable has descended upon this family; a net across a dog frothing and tongue lolling with eyes all keen with understanding of what won't happen anymore. And the matriarch that is this grandmother sits, statuesque and stony, in the sparkle of the immaculate sideyard with a psyche prone to control and tight grasps. They all get up in sync, a sort of marionette show with strings and cogs and tears that never come out but lay within the bearer to stay where they are. I can't seem to figure out what is making me feel so frightened, thinks the young boy as he lifts his hand to his face. I've felt something like a phantom across my mind for years, thinks the mother as her Clinton suit coat wraps her shoulders like a shroud. I know that this is the one track I'll be on for decades, thinks the father as his cup dangles from his finger shaking. These pajamas make me what I am, thinks the toddler as his toes wriggle and dance in their impersonation of a cantor. This. Is. For. You. Grandmother we've gotten you something to make amends. You don't know what I've felt this last century, you've no way to atone for what I feel is missing, thinks the grandmother as a collection gift passes into being from the only people that will ever love her tired heart. They've been trudging ever so presently into being what they are: something that is buried up in personal tragedy and pawns that moved without their masters. A game like a pinball machine and the family Grief looks into the silver balls coming towards them like glistening eyes in the tunnel. This life just bounces them about and they rattle. They drip their insides out when the other isn't looking. Just tip the bottle to the dregs and you'll see a bit of their sentiments roll out like daggers. There is a well of feeling underneath the foundation of this house that roils and trashes. These tired souls just walk unsteady and unlikely upon the trembling skin of their past and wish for the best with entrusting eyes. It keeps them upset and waking up and lost and feeling unkempt. The barn burning of the past is gone and they're left with clinical ambience to miscalculate their passive aggressive gambits. The poker game just goes on and on. The grandmother knows she'll never go all in while the rest just keep their faces sewn up tight.

Lumbar Support Group Reaches It's End.

With chronic lower back pain writhing about his torso like well placed plastic explosives, he descends into the lower eschelon of human thought; akin to the empty junk food wrapper. Lying useless upon the floor so the night aches keep away, a mist like necromancy keeps him lost from the sight up above. Those that torment him, careless bedsheets, washing machines jiving about the inner sanctum, lolling doors opening upon broken heaters, can be forgotten until the pager beeps. Out of season, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" jingles from the handset and the electrician stares at him blankly while he clutches his shattered inside part lower down with the one section out of alignment twinkling white with pain. He thought he was a young man but he's apparently 27 going on 77 as he stoops slowly. He comes to stop against the breakers and the timer for the electric socket is gone and dear to replace. He nods, taking this in, mumbles something that resembles "I've gotta lay on the ground..." and wanders off to the periphery with the screwdriver spinning. When he returns the man of the wire has disappeared. The boss has arrived and explains his calf trouble. "I hear that, It's frustrating with no where to go at night, this aching," replies the cripple. A torn and crumpled map of Illinois looms on the wall; Northwest section missing, nice messages from home, blue permanent marks encircle where he came from and he's reminded of the transience of his existence here, his existence anywhere. The support of his body could get better, it could get worse. It'll get somewhere for sure and eventually not be there at all. The front door opens and someone has their heart all dripping and human and open faced. We're all here just getting ourselves into situations of pain and happiness.

Quite Contrary, Self Referential Society.

The past flows through me like the blood in my veins as if that blood were a hulking machine careening down a thin alley carrying a woe unknown for the recipients yet named; deliveries all told bringing out the history of an identity gasping. The idea that we could all be just stories relayed within our own skulls, told over and over again to wake upon the laughter of what we are. I don't know where you come from but I've yet to reject a regret. Because you see what isn't there, a dimness that frightens you into thinking you aren't who you are, a knot like a thorn upon a stem or a kink like a joint upon a toe, minor words spinning finer birds further and further abroad so far that they've lost their flight patterns and their family wasn't there anymore. And the future becomes past tense and the dire comedy relieves itself on the CEO's lawn while you loose yourself into the thick waitress without a care in the world. All scattered and rolling, a vase of marbles: your thoughts. They are there and that cacophony won't rest lest some brain aneurysm springs upon you like the Dr. Kavorkian waiting in the lean-to you built for your sanity. So I thought it was interesting, in a worldly way, to listen to a song in Spanish. So I was pursued by an over arching plot of self destruction. So I often pretend that those I wish were looking actually were. So I deceive myself. So yes, I laugh at my own jokes. Ill intent wasn't the point when the latent cause emerged from the depths of the apartment of the past where I drank somewhat and kept passing out underneath the poker table. Just know that what looks like a round light on the ceiling is a skylight that lets natural light in. There is no switch to turn off. At night, some light still comes in. If you need a darker room to sleep tell us as it can be blacked out.

Action Sequence via Suburban BBQ.

Where were you. When I was deep in the woods looking up sighting three legged dogs leaping alongside deer with shines of faraway lights dim in my pupil. Where were you? While I rang up the coroner to inquire of the party supervisor, while I tore my clothes off in the river, while I leapt from the bridge embankment in slow motion with an explosion tearing out my eardrums. Where were you? You were out in the backyard flirting with the lady with the black tooth and shaky hands. Gripping a drink with slow ice cubes revolving like heavenly bodies, looking up coquettishly in a random display of lust, you were coercing some lovely broken waitress behind the proverbial dumpster to have a go at love and dreams and mental breakdowns. That's where you were. While I flung a detonator in the air with the glass of aquariums spiraling about the scene, somersaulting into the nearest cave that conveniently shielded the blast, you were standing with your left fist jammed into your pants in the backyard; at a barbecue that dripped with amnesia. You didn't know where you were to be exact. While I was parachuting downtown with a knife clenched in my teeth you were lumbering about a suburban cliche and summarising plot twists to eight year olds with a dazed look in your eyes.

The Cynic Picks 'Em Off.

When the insightful music chimes in after a profound statement is uttered on the dial he has to restrain his cynicism from putting a red X in the box marked "No Contribution." Whenever he sees a symbol of hope flit across the sky in a blur of white he has to squint further to even get it. It dawns on him like a silly mistake: this life is meant to be cherished. That's why all these cheermongers keep placing samples of uplifting monologues in their positive vibe soundtracks. Why do they seem so complacent, these life affirming sentiments? Why, when he's yet to experience any sort of tragedy or massive upheaval, is it so hard to walk the soft ground without the hard thought? There may be a wicked trench yet to be uncovered, a foreshadowing, a thunderstorm upon the plains in the distance, a death, a love gone, a decades worth of tears, a paycheck like an affirmation of the worst: there may be something in the future that gives reason to these stupid preoccupations. He wants to fall in love, and yes, that doesn't happen. He wants to feel complete, and yes, that hasn't happened. He preys upon contentment like a jackal. He's just full of wants unfulfilled. The skeptic sits upon the ledge of the ominous building across the way with a sniper rifle. All those reasons to be happy come streaming out of the trapdoor on ground level only to be picked off one by one... a self fulfilling prophesy, these bullets laying within the chamber. To pass is to be over, and yes, this too shall pass, all of it.

A Tune Like Smoke and Mirrors.

I want to just keep creaking and swaying and pretending that I'm a pillar of a community that rallies about me like flotsam about a dead branch. A flooded town of doweries, unpaid ransoms, celebrated porn stars and deviant plans bent on production. A valley brought down with the first railroad line cutting through it like smoke through a straw. Collections of dust, like stamps posted upon dry shutters clapping in the farmhouse abandoned long ago when there was a fair that came through every year to keep the children from running terrified into the stupor of crickets and flowing water. Oh I just went too far with them; those thoughts. I built a tree fort that resembled a fortress and convinced my best friend that we were deftly manuevering ourselves away from the clutches of the malevolence next door. We were somehow loose upon a world that was of our creation. The yellow jackets swarmed from the hole and they were the fourth reich and we defeated them with a can of gasoline. We kept evil at bay and looked out over a field just waiting to be turned into suburban sprawl. And the riding lawnmower murmured a tune like smoke and mirrors all wrapped and held warm in the glow of summer and adolescence. We weren't mistaken: this was something free of wrestled thoughts.

Auctioneer Sneers Across the Crowd.

The hope is that you'll be sold and we can all move on from this ordeal. Towards something worth it. Towards something else entirely. Like wine pouring form into a vine. The steak forgetting the steer. The stake laughing at the tree. The castle weeping for the quarry. The soil forgiving the corpse. The idea giving way to the unimaginable. Left alone, these are the things of dreams and longing and feelings unrequited; peeling away to reveal some of those lost in the woods. Tears streaming down their faces, hiccuping in the ash of the autumn, carving a pumpkin with a knife like a prayer. The salt flow washing the dirt from their cheeks as a slap would; that hope that you will be sold. I don't know what you became when you slipped on that suit coat and sold that used car. You are a retired boozehound with nothing left. You are a man with hulking masculinity all shriveled and useless. You lull and sway and mince words to the surprise of the support group you attend. You try to remember the raw materials that you are composed of. You try to remember what you were, what formulated your current self. You want to forgive those that came together to make you what you are: a retired boozehound with hopes of selling yourself.

Nihilism...Fuck Me.

Do not fear, my ever-effluent embodiment of ethos, that which burns is only your body. For it is of flame. You are creased across the middle like a doll all stupefied in the woods when the headlights alight upon its forehead. Looking up from the carcass steaming in the emptiness of a cricket orchestra; dim save a single bulb casting daunting shadows from a porch aslant three acres far. Southwestern desolate states of crossing the lines and edging ever closer to the heaps of lumber to be burned by the ill at ease. You are an exhaustion. You burn up bright, a ball of tinsel dancing in the eyes of a toddler already middle aged and crying in a cubicle. The coming on of a belief structure is a phenomena akin to the tripping of a steel trap. Those teeth just get in there and an amputation is required to free oneself from the idea. The burning point is too up there to let one walk out the door without a detrimental sacrifice. You are just too pervasive. You are a mental itch so delicate and unseen as to envelop every unconscious effort and estimate each divisive action in advance. The building blocks that seem to resemble free will, when built up, suddenly loom as fate does. You create that feeling of endless possibility while curtailing a revolution. The eyes of the blue, blue fox, caught in the springs chest heaving and life all aspun and stopped up; a secret terror is unveiling its invention. At least it's an ethos.

The Future Enabled. The Past Possibly.

The future is a mess we all know how to clean up. If the past is a mess, it was meant to be. Pouring into the riptide the enabler feels this epitaph sink into his bones ticking and swaying.

Don't leave my emptiness unfilled. Don't unlose this loss. Don't decant this morose and pitching love. Do not tear up this feeling. For his zealous actions there were passwords scrambled into cryptic enigmas swaying lovely drunk on mescaline across the streaming catwalk of the internet. The digital mistresses all called him at the same time demanding a broken family, a wife left behind. The subject line kept blinking all acursed with a cursor; driving him up the wall as if the highway went straight to that waxen moon like bone dramatic in the brilliantly empty night sky. He doesn't have anything. A plastic card dripping numbers and security codes and years of direct deposit all credit checked and loosed upon a serious wrinkle in his forehead. Wimpering fine, ribs tuned like mandolin strings, he enjoys long walks on the beach until the surf laps upon his singing toes to woo him into the rocks beyond. He stirs awake to crash amidst the commiserating outcroppings of stone, sent there by the arms of the ocean. The riptide and the empty heart lost within one another's eyes; an astronaut harvests useless rocks on the other side of the moon where the enabler can not see why the tide keeps its time with this body relenting across the sky on a diet that leaves its body waxing and waning unhealthy and bright. It's all an illusion, the crescent, the full, the past, the future, the loss, the gain. They're all just some sensation merged at the edge of some pointless shootout set off by some misunderstanding told in the script, illuminated by fertile verse and cunning insight. Let me look upon my life with keen understanding, thinks the enabler as his body crumples upon the desolate makings of the shore to the cheering of the vast body of water surrounding every piece of land we have ever walked upon.

His Loss, Your Loss.

It was a notion within his mind to be better that slipped silently by like the leaves fallen into the dead black creek. They'd quit the sky and wind and bothersome quarrels of flight and pennance terraced and dim across a milky sky like China smoldering across the way in its dim period. Muted tone. Duty born a loose leaf promise torn up in a heated moment while the brittle heaps raked up naked against the fence sum up an entire year burning. Delicate and cautionless, he entered the furthest banks with a mindless stare doing up his face like some sort of thick make up. He was hell bent and straightened up so taut as to afflict a note. Twinkling and gleaming like a broke music box in the castaway's palm. The water teems with carnivore melodies; lapping against, slathering, foaming against the rocks like teeth and spittle and careless banter emerging to the aghast crowd screaming out across the millions of miles of problems and love letters lest they be burnt and cast up into the sky with the coming of winter. Our loss is their loss, our broken heart bleeds out blood that came from another, the river leaves here and looses itself into everywhere else. The ashes of one's past breathes out over the vast plain of everything else and he feels like someone else took for granted what had been given to him. Together we'll look up one last time to see the last shooting star out there on the horizon eke out it's last brightness and we'll make our last wish in our heads like something cast in pink glitter and blowing in the bruised twilight of a dying day.