Saturday, December 11, 2010


pageants of skin parading what was. a series. a storm of numbers. tearing down this shelter. it's the little stones and quiet whispers. that destroy this brick.

I'm not deciding. leaving the roads to choose. which way. which lie is next to push to button. wake the machine. this skin relentlessly conceals. the hours. the years. sharpening their teeth. devouring.

a turbine spinning. hunting without weapons. little girls on the last of their lollipop confessing. it wasn't sweet enough. brakes squeal. depositing us in these strange places. the engine still turning. like the gnaw of vermin. on dangling wires.

I'm finally there. I've found it. the thin lace that surrounds broken portals. the weak knots that keep the secrets. of stubborn angels.

I've found it, but I'd rather still be searching.

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