Dipthongs

Long tails. The mule on the empty cart. Still pulling. Alone. Ambivalent. The sting of estrogen belittles her epiphany. The courage of thieves. To take. The wisdom of martyrs. Not to ask.

The rules of dead gods still heavy in her conscience. Blank sheets. To scratch at. With dried up pens. The words are there. Cockroaches humming in the darkness behind the walls. Only there when she's not looking. The years are certain. This many. No more. Drowning in her empty hands.

Short eyes. In tolerant confessions. Trying on the lie. In swatches of skin. The chill of denim. Paler than sleep. Pawns dressed as kings. The quantum. Canonical lapses in her field of. Alone. Ambivalent. Christ in little pills. Cures everything. And nothing.

Gods in tall hats. Alone with the man. He is good. He is bad. And everything a deity might want. But nothing that a woman would crave. The fissure stalls. Somewhere in the middle of the experiment. And sex is born. Touch only a manufacture of the mind. Irrelevant. Those protons playing tag. These cells their playground.

The end unfolds in brief surprises. No saviors. No demons. Just as I was. Am. The thrill of a dying. More slowly than I ever thought I could. The devil in fancy dresses. Crashing parties. Smudging their alibis. Murders in broken sentences.

The world stops and I get off. Or at least think I did. But everything is still spinning.

Not lost. Just can't decide where I'm going.