Reel my past connected by bits of yarn and fiber like a spiders web in a windows corner, brushed faces, in faint blue lines, veins of life--pledging to the night as the smoke fills their lungs and fluid drowns like a knife’s hackneyed incise, tearing arterial cavities and hanging them out to dry like a quilted shirt strung high on piano wire across an alley with tenement mentality like the rats beneath--cluttered and woven knots like sneering waves atop one another at sea; with the wanting, the wanting of a beach.

A dandelion’s feathers fluid to the stiletto and rhythm of natures breathing, like fractions, fractions of (who we could be, Giants in a distant slumber waking only to Your call) won't you help me I've been falling from who I used to be, human. Memories cascading like the soft whisper of rain, gray vapor consumes them again like the soiled ill fortuned
greedy fingers of a beggar’s hands, fingertips smearing ash across the foreheads of my puerile reveries lain to rest on a tattered box spring mattress, springs bent, all but distant, all but distant and well forgotten. my immortal beloved, now an effigy—frame wasted to the ground. What was once beautiful is now like a bloom of shivered glass, barely sutured to the frame, precariously floating, reigned by gravity and crass. Synchronicities of beauty and mortality, hand in hand, a finely knit atrocity, bliss and shameful statues as ignorance’s pigeon, flightless and castigated with crimson tides—and oh that smile in their eyes fornicate candor, an unbridled hemorrhage that is always guilty. Acquaintances bereft of a lurid morning, like twine spun and portioned at convenience, fastened to a finger to mark a chore—now a somber despondency which changes with the weather. Truth like rust, veiled in the unforgiving dusk, asphyxiating any plumage from the tree of purpose--bleak and arid. A faint surge and notion shivers silence,
The seraphs quiver emptied to poison me with such fascination, to the most alluring, the first sign of spring, crocuses and lilies, pierced the linen white like a picket fence to stop my coveting of things, to dance like the butterflies among the doves, flying only ankle high, like a temporal sieve to confuse what I believe? Hastened patter and streaming lines--but to no avail, I would not have death as my bride. Acquaint with me the tempest that clouds your anxious vision, she was a primrose through the brass looking glass from the splintered warp deck, a calyx unscratched by the freeway wreck, but through a carpenters hands-- logged surface, hollow, and flawed—requited my glance, “she is so dead, she is so dead!” The insects whimper in my head said she that was all along. And my eyes ruse my mind; a coronary motion sickness confirmed in my bloodied cries what am I to think, we all can fall from grace sometimes. A tragedy tacit within our hearts as the distant slumbering giant lay exposed to the sanctioned derision” et tu Brute?” a meaning forever left grasping to the still frame motioned hand sutured like rail road tracks to the corners of my head, keeping me with the calm steady throb, of living still turning within me. Each breath an april morning, a gilded sunrise, such beauty in every step the ant makes, I was to be humbled by such an inspiration, a faith without bound, a love deeper then any valley or ocean trench, a devotion, a piece I had long missed. Such fraility plagued my mind now addled by a fouled breeze and silk screen veil that forwarned. an adultery
The widowed spider that sleeps on such a nest and collects the winged flying pests, like a menagerie of feasts, a timeline of succeeding events drains away. So streches the filaments and fragments, filibustered and fractured, a streaming line individual frames still negatives, sections, separated by empty space, the pictureless frames of a life left to live.


if you dare replicate the tellings of a wearied soul, misfortune will meet you too.