(SOLD TO SUBURB) as time elapsed the strength of the under-the-wheel glassbottle gave in to guilt -in the overbearing sense of the word. it cracked and gasped and let itself become the first manmade martyr (or maybe became the sand in her hair?) meanwhile- no one saw (or expected to see) the last pinhole in space get painted over in frustration for a last/final attempt at creation... even the solace given to moms engaged in midnight prayers became local legend and it was said that even God lost faith in his children (UNTITLED) put a price on his/her head. threehundred dollars and a squandered life lesson (AUGUST 4th) there sits the dying man and his rifle. we name clocks in his honor and he props up the very notion of separated garage duties in finding neon over pooltable afternoons and a half read sports section. we singlefile his bed and wait for our undeserved inheritance and fake memories to each other in hopes of a successful charade. little children really are capable of adulthood faking. (UNTITLED) youve filled your pillow with autumn leaves and left your window open for a chance at a citysound lullaby. your coat hangs/twists and turns -sounds like- pages flip to leaf rhythm and roll down another landscape in a timeless linger. small breaks between breaths signal the stop/start of time and your bruised ribs are given creations name and purpose. -or at least thats how it should be... (UNTITLED) even butterflies have a day to day routine (EIGHT TEN) carry me carry me find me lost in hollow dream carry me carry me makebelieves no what it seems... time (ah yes) is running short and he finds there is too much slack in the noose. noontime revelry of dancing slowly (rope in hand) in front of open apt. window... (?) photographs stuck in lonely shoebox w/no label/lid memory trapped in silent under-the-bed notice all situations but never say more than 1000words highschool romances and once-in-a-lifetime dares peer a feet and wonder whats next... no one is jealous but wish and wait for better times to greet/join the past. never remembrances -just documented- this is just the same... written polaroid. (NEVER REGRETS) its not how i imagined -if not now, when? its wide-eyed fantastic -if not now, when? its catching a brick when your city falls- counting faces in a sea of eyes when youve no need for defense- sunday morning best seen through shattered stained glass- spilling your guts to a girl you fucked/loved- (IM JUST SLOWLY DYING IN THE LITERAL SENSE) (OUTSIDE, THE TREES LEAN IN TOWARD YOUR WINDOW AND PLAY THEIR GAME OF TELEPHONE) (2ND CHANCE/2ND TRY/2ND GUESS/2ND BEST... WHY CANT I GROW UP?) (A PRAYER- give me the time i need show me the chance to live make me aware teach me the rules let me fuck up punish me for being insincere -AMEN) (WHALES IN DISTANT SEAS**) scars left on bathroom wall poems writ on rearview mirror cigarette burns on carpet yellow smokestains on ceiling -every morning, i confess sins into toilet after nights spent blur-eyed and (semi) carefree -eight am shift -fivethirty pm shift -ten o'clock open bottle/halfempty box-o-cigarettes -phonecall desperation exposing loneliness and pass'd out round midnight... **real title: (THIS APARTMENT IS WINTER) -or- (THIS'LL NEVER HAPPEN) (EVEN LIONS KNOW THEIR PLACE IN THE WILD) (UNTITLED) dont you cry for the devils son the devils son dont cry for no one abandon thought of quiet life youll never be his perfect wife (FORTUNE FAVORS EVEN THE SMALLEST BIRDS) sex is just a slow pulling of jagged knife from heaving chest. p.s. i love you