1/

On every street-corner, people are screaming 
Out meaningless headlines. Eros is exhausted: was a god, is a moon.

Events here on Earth are so easily crossed out. 
In art (like sex) the unbidden sneaks in with willingness. 

We listen with the same weaknesses; we wear our identical skins. 
Scarlett smashes open every entrance: all water must be allowed in. 

These days, grammar and decency wash up on the beach 
With the rest of the detritus. Dig her a hole, she'll call it home. 

The emptiness in her head is a killing thing, pressing itself 
Into her epicentered loneliness. Every melody now scripts itself for loss.


August 12. 2013.-October 6. 2013. 

 
3/

Stress is the weight crushing her 
Memories. Her pockets are as empty as her head.

Why this rush and rigor, this cumulonimbus muttering? She is the person
Who sits quietly in the room; she never says anything  / meaningful anymore.

Remembering togetherness provokes doubt that lasts as long 
As each insomniac night. Easy to forget how hungry absence can be.

Every emptiness forms its own unique shape. She is waiting for the life-
Sized electric lawn-angel to cast away the unbearable, to reintroduce her to truth. 

The ticking metronome is driving her to think terrible
Things, terrible things: blue, for example, has acquired teeth. 


August 12. 2013.-December 16. 2013.
 

5/

Carrion beetles are gorging on yesterday's tragedies.
Can anybody explain what the burning clouds mean? 

She would be on her knees, praying, but torsion 
Gets her nowhere further than this current / mindlessness. 

Concern fascinates the facts she effortlessly 
Skins. All her words amount to is ventriloquism.

She's anxious his message will be a blurred series of mumblings,
That he'll garble the confession she's been waiting 14 years to hear. 

Bloodbox, sourblack hymns: she ends here-pale, wasted-past this poem's hazard.
The phone in the kitchen is ringing; she's terrified it's finally him (hesitate, O hesitate.)


Monday. August 12. 2013. -December 16. 2013. 
 

11/

Pleased to consider his invitation for dinner and wine. She's forgotten precisely 
Why it's so important (the fact that he is wearing a mask) but this concern, too, shall pass.

She worries about enclosed spaces, forbidden border-crossings. Natural to want to be clean, bright
And intact, but it's filthy and dark here, she's sharp-toothed and cracked: important to remember this. 

What was she thinking?-the thought is there, flopping against the porcelain basin, too 
Slippery to retrieve-she waits, terrified as her body unhands the last of her / working synapses. 

She's fascinated by holes: circles in the knees of jeans, emptiness where 
Her memories used to be-oh, but even in betrayal, the mind can be cunning.

That which escapes from within spills over, fills her with a warmth close enough 
To company. Perpetually caught between departure and destination, she is forever arriving / at loss.


August 14. 2013.-December 16. 2013.
 

12/

News of the failing certitude of normalcy is brought by the return of exhausted gossamer wings 
A new mental pestilence Xeroxes copies of itself and spreads them like a scythe across her mind.

Uncertainty regarding relation to truth creates an ever-slackening tension. Something is bent 
On tearing light from matter, image from similitude; it has brought permanent darkness down. 

Torn awake, she leans her head against a wall and the wall is not. Fear forms continuously in
Diffuse nebulae; a constant trembling discloses the sinister intentions of the condensing shadows.

Below, a multiplying nightblack insidiousness visibly surges without reference to a human 
Presence. Absent of all ambiguity, neurons spike quickly: catastrophe is consummating a holocaust.

Confusion metes out exile; at variance with standard distance, certainty dissolves, spilling in runnels  
Down her hands. Stand where the crossing occurs, watch as the world collapses back into nothingness. 


August 14. 2013.-December 16. 2013.

 
13/
 
Rhythms of absence and presence determine sky and ground, driven
Transverse now. Respite is oft mistaken for the distant, shimmering horizon.
 
Dusky specters, those dancing projections pregnant with prevarication, suction themselves 
To sentient beings and lay claim to stolen language by wrapping their hands round its throat.
 
It's not difficult to understand her body / has finally unhanded her 
Mind. It's only when she looks away that the day-lit landscape recommences.
 
All cracked black vowels, shadowy consonants, and hissed sibilants, his voice whispers, eyes I gave 
You; your tongue, your mind: At any point along the trajectory of the self, he can make her body stop.
 
Tempting to believe this is a fiction her exhausted thoughts have penned, but 
When she turns, a piece of music at its andante, the crawling shadows resume. 


Wednesday. August 14. 2013.-Friday. January 10. 2014.

 
14/
 
Waking in her winter bed, feeling a long way from home, she helps herself to Alice's magic 
Pills so that she might last through another grey day's surging waves of vastblack panic.
 
He is the darkness descending on Ft. Lauderdale; 
She is the winter child he hides in his forest's dark places.
 
His wicked night-smiling face mars the equinoctial sky, lending it his sepulchral pall; 
He blots out the evening's joyous display of diamondhard stars' coruscated scintillations.
 
Subtlety departs at dinnertime-he pinches her side (lovetouch, 
Warning, reminder)-he'll come for her again, when she's least expecting him.
 
What runs through the tunnel of her gaze, he seizes there 
And stains. Too late: when his wake takes shapes, he's gone.


Wednesday, August 14, 2013.-Friday. January 10. 2014. 

 
15/
 
Premonitions of pesticide clouds spoil the margaritic moonglow 
Glazing nacreous light over aureate fields of marigolds and morning-glories. 
 
Days like this, she leaves alibis behind, slipping 
Into an aberrant parade of displaced dreams. 
 
Weeks spent pent up in doorless, razorwire-
Topped rooms have extinguished all fantasy.
 
These nights, when she sleeps, she dreams about 
Needles. Aidan says drag / accounts for metamorphosis.
 
Saturated by arrestless shifts of glare and shadow she mistakes 
For an opening abyss, she folds inward, a compressed accordion.
 
She is all bruised blossoms and astonishment. Because, not seeking, 
She was found, her filamented path back to him is forever fugitive now.

Thursday. August 15. 2013.-Friday. January 10. 2014.