The Monkey in the Wrench

The box. In curious conditions. Of sweat and skin. Intricate sinews tear at the paper. Chew on the pens. The parable. Full of characters and wit. Chewing on the morality of if. His eyes finally close and she can think again.

About butterflies. Their frail wings. Pushing her back. To the beginning of inevitable catastrophes.

The muscle gorged and sated on a feast of now. Slithers through each dimension. Confident the exits won't be found. Patterns she insists. Pulsars. Beacons in the flesh. Leave a trail. No matter when.

The motor. Empty lungs breathe each lurch. As we attempt to exist. In spite of ourselves. In a world so random. We still search for the patterns.

Missing numbers wake the insomniac. The burden of search. With dolls to dress. Hungry engines stutter on their plastic eyes. The stare. The hours like stalled hurricane. Poised to consume us.

The arrogance of failed poets wasting their lives. Trying to explain the things that no one can.

The hours on the clock counting backward until she can't remember. How wrong she was.