Just a little more than angry. Sending signals. Spinning silk deception over miles and miles of an invisible inforway. With the Keys to this heat underfoot and hurricanes swirling in from the Far East, an advantage. Dual prepositions juxtaposed and the meaning lost in a string of angsty poetry and cryptic lines about a subtle, aching suffering. Torn across the skin and leaving signs, directions to follow across the chest. A seat in a panhandle. Iron and smooth. Brittle and hard. Breaking. How do things get so crazy and just seem to crumble into forgotten pieces? Is this how you want? Is this the only way we've left to desire? There's a face in the background, a whisper stitching through the backdrop.
Pushing. I knew a liar once.
I saw you there.
I'll bet he still knows how to cry. Just ask him. Think he's faking again? I'll bet he doesn't know. I'll bet there's a tunnel. Journey to the center of nothing. Keep waiting for the light. Close your eyes and keep waiting. You can't be disappointed if you're only stricken blind. Keep hoping. Keep writing breathing. Lying. To yourself.
Just stop.
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