we wear the colors of consent. in all their jagged pieces. 

tasting our shame in lingering isotopes. spent in the pangs of change.

the numbers taste our blood. the sweet and sour of ambivalence keeps count. 
as our wagers overcome us.

the machine is a constant. a universe unto itself residing within. 
lurching forward. and crawling back.

crippled by the treacherous ambitions of flesh.

we try on each stranger. desperate for one that fits. 

time the only arbiter as we wriggle out from under each other's skin. 

we summon what remains of our voice. searching for words where none matter. 

gathering our demons as we approach the door to heaven.

time puts on its mask. a ladder outside our window. soiled with strange footprints.  a monster in our closet. its curious skin too loud to understand.

words not nearly enough. as we lay down in the empty spaces between us. desperate for answers that it never had to give. 

griefs synthesizes its toxins. an economy of shame that fortifies our understanding. 

distance sheds its skin. its brittle bones still listening for where to go next. an ambivalent rabbit waiting to be plucked from life's tattered hat.

the loss swallows us. like some unrelenting cure. for a sickness we never knew was ours.

the famine lingers. a barren feast. gluttonous with dubious choices.

the door closes behind us. as if we've always been counting. how many key we've misplaced. for all the locks between us. 

we search for the difference between the name we've chosen and the ones that have chosen us.

our journey measured equally in shallow puddles and torrential downpours.

the ripe fruit quickly becomes treason when left unpicked. this is the pendulum that marks our lives.

the poison remains sealed inside the box. a void until someone dares to look inside.

time bites its lip. selling its betrayal for a much higher profit than its convictions.

the distance chokes on itself. as she stumbles past its consent.

its incredulous cure still much too weak.

as her sickness cinches its knots. 

we search for the difference between where we are and where we've been. 

piglets in their straw houses. 

unaware of the wolf within. 

 the end approached slowly. both a beggar and a thief.

she counted out loud. chasing every decimal. as division lit its fuses.

change grinned as it untangled its chains. flaunting its empty cages.

he said there was time. that it was stalwart. even as everything else collapsed.

the end held its breath. as the truth slithered under her skin.

selling the tilted fractions of ravenous strangers. a curious commodity of lingering debts.

a caution of cracked buoys. adrift in the shallows of a deeper ocean.

time cinched its remaining threads. an efficient assassin. undeterred by slippery tongues.

through it all. she continued to keep count.

long after the math had given up. 

 crippled thieves barter with the truth. 

a casual transaction of skin and shame. 

a wealth of deceit to settle a debt older than choice.

the windows watch with their transparent eyes. 

pitying the strays. 

the walls whisper with their wooden tongues. 

all the things we never said.

the distance tells its stories. 

an indifferent narrator to the follies of our lives.

time is our currency. 

as we fumble for purchase on life's treacherous slopes.

the friction of touch our only advantage. 

as we pursue the edge.

the miles overtake us. 

we swim in the embrace of the flood.. 

a chorus of silence. 

while we wait for the chance to breathe again. 

 the edge sleeps softly in its tremulous conceit. touching everything. feeling nothing.

worn by the distance in soiled gowns and muddy fingers.

the monster carries his face in his hands. searching for the place where he might wear it again.

in deep forests where little girls tote their heavy baskets.

his heart full of broken zippers. his voice distorted by decrepit fangs.

the distance simmers in his breath. all too eager to scald him.

the edge counts backward. from beginning to end. a curious dare.

skin places its bets. all melted candy and empty wrappers.

the monster discards his claws. and waits. for the world to change. 

unaware that it already has. 

time boasts its ugly corners. 
a delicate bargain of shame and power. 

caustic dolls loosed from their dresses. 
chewing on their plastic grins.

their voices come in proper storms. 
a cornucopia of why. 

time sells us. our want its only commodity. 
tangled ribbons in the throats of strays. 

the paradox of simple thieves 
with nothing left to steal. 

their world all back doors and breadcrumbs. 
change just a small piece of candy caught in our teeth. 

time melts under our skin. a glorious disease. 
offering a cure with each new infection. 

progress overtakes us. 
a long series of murders 

time listens for our surrender.
as if we still have something left to lose.

 time has its own measures for the volume of blood spilled.

the parable of skin is written by spurious strangers.

we wear our trust in lazy nooses.

choking on the knots we've made in its rope.

stilted by the lingering bruises.

flesh has its own equations.

to calculate the value of each touch.

we merely stumble over its numbers,

pretending to understand the cost.

sometimes change stumbles over itself. a clumsy dictator in the lingering aristocracy of want.

the threshold is too complacent. as our monsters destroy the locks.

sometimes we are free only because everything is lost.

the door is still wide open. because we're waiting for the bodies to be removed.

sometimes we are only small pieces. in a puzzle of consent. 

as we wonder which villains belong in our bed.  

sometimes the distance measures itself. because we've forgotten where we started from. 

wandering through the forest in our little red hoods. 

searching for just the right wolves. 

the floods come and go. 
fickle mercenaries in an unconscious war. 
the tepid catastrophes of eager flesh. 

the bridges are collapsed. 
as bridges tend to do in storms. 
especially when we take them for granted. 

the distance is a curious thief. 
a long string of paper dolls. 
severed at their wrists. 

the story has its own agenda
mostly candy houses  
and unattended ovens. 

even as the pages dwindle, 
we dutifully keep count
of all those discarded skins.

we know we'll wear them again
in our next fairy tale. 

the end tosses its coins into the foundtain. 
an obvious surrender.
as our wishes prove false. 

patient monsters.
listen to the rain fall.
spent by the spurious motives of lazy storms. 

we count.
gnawing on our fingers, as flesh
considers the scope of its power. 

we test the colors.
as the storms tug on our zippers.
desperate to measure the resilience of its poison. 

we touch the windows.
with severed thumbs.
enchanted by everything we cannot hold. 

frail fists clutch their wagers.
against the diminishing odds. 

a series of choices. 
simplified by touch. 
complicated by when. 

orphans navigating 
the topography of strangers.
seraching for a backdoor.

stray thieves.
with their guns in their back pockets.
counting the bullets on the ground.

ignoring the blood. 

loyal beasts gather their grins.
the perpetual fever of touch,
digs sweetly in their hardened bones.

time accumulates its debts,
in chafing skin
and ugly distractions.

curious monsters,
chew on the empty pockets
in abandoned rooms.

the distance is sour
as it coats our lips.
in raw betrayal.

we bite into the fruit,
even as our skin is ripe
with so many treasons. 

the light falters. worn by too many shadows.

seldom rabbits in the tall grass. tremble under the watchful gaze of paralyzed wovles.

ghosts in the doorway dig their fingers into our thoughts. selling resurrection from the bottom of their boots. 

the light falters. divided by too many windows.

ambivalent corpses stiffen in the soft refraction. swimming through the jagged edges of the glass. the petulant inhabitants of abandoned skins. 

the light falters. cut by the sharp corners where it tends to stray. 

our voices linger at the threshold. timid orphans with severed tongues. 

slender threads knotted in all the wrong places. are all that conenct us.