vicious.
she smells of heartache and burnt paper.
with words telling of nights
the back.breaking sky held an army
and the stars fell.
like bombs.

when trouble was written in broken bones
the letters were made with cotton.
her eyes treated me like a refuge.

These words
slip
twisted
through the gutter
and I can't help but remember the time
when our dreams were answered with miracles
instead of switchblades.

When it gets right down to it,
we are mortal
enemies of mortality
and serenity
is just a number we dial
on lonely nights.

when we. break our necks to see heaven.
and god is just a dial tone.
that speaks in drunken murmurs.
we spin webs in romance novel style cliches
sounding boards for the drunk and lonely.
we are blind.

for lack of a better word.

like breakdown artists that drip paint
from concrete tables. heartbreak is as objective
as breathing.
so I'm drawing blanks.
in the form of perfection.


.
.
We are only as strong
as the weakest chain link
fence
built around our wills to survive.
.
.


When the wind blows November
over my huddled clay-lump body,
I weep into the sewage grates
and hope that somewhere
my tears will find the ocean.




but the water has stopped running.
and I'm lost