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he doesn't make it. he makes it more pronounced more defined chiseled with such perfection that I catch my breath question my morals watch my smile. he didn't start it. he started a progression a regression a momentary compression. he stumbled into the year of annus mirabilis notable for disasters or fate. just a flick of the wrist and he casts a line that reels in miracle after every day mediocre miracle. and then he throws them back left to wander the sea until the next sunset chooses her quiescent wonder.

The alcohol on your breath was sweet sweeter than I remember intoxicating is a cliche is was more of a reminder led me up to what I recall as steel never quite as cold but just as strong its not hard to use what you've got to get what you want sweat mingles with sweat too many thoughts to follow through properly until old habits come alive and smooth glides like steel old habits die hard but oh they go down so smooth

I'm trying to hold this bottle steady using it as a sextant in my journey tonight attempting for one last hold on the reigns of stability for I have heard they are so great. I hear the good days are worth living for and I am looking for them in this bottle of wine. "I don't want to grow into my parents" I say yet I am seeing my mothers face in my own, I am hearing my fathers disposition through the silence. Maybe a recovery treatment program can cure my sickness; a lusting after dipsomania. It only takes twelve steps to cure an addict and it's only taken twenty years to break me down.

The ground moves in Brooklyn whether you are stationary or not; there's no stopping progress. Damien Rice is trying to forget you're coming home and I am promising myself stability in a place where the ground is rather solid and predictable. It's funny how the race calmed me and encouraged living my life. I am mentally refusing my comfort zone and I pray chaos will burn me to clarity. I want to be in a place where the ground moves but I am three steps ahead. I want to be in a place where solidarity and success cum together. Please, God, I don't want to kill myself to get there.

Someone lit me on fire. I am the wick and someone came to match. Someone came to match, striking against me only to produce fireworks. Flames licking at the grayscale sizing me up for my heart and the blood rushing through my veins itching for some heat searching for ignition in its own rite. Curling at the tips, sparking on my own now try and put (me) you out, trick candles. No matter how hard I try you keep coming back stunningly beautiful all the while on fire. Dripping wax on eager skin designs burned; arson settling itself deep into my flesh. Willing to burn: up in flames down in ash. Causes and capable, a righte

"I really need to grow up," she said. Staring at the curtains nobody wanted on the windows in the first place, it was the first time in a long time that she had truly felt pain. It wasn't something she had prepared herself for and the tears were coming hard and fast. Her thoughts were all over the place and the dog wasn't even sympathizing. So much for mans best friend. Stream of conciousness is chock full of interior monologue. Just letting it go and go and go when all you wanted to do was really, really, really say it out loud. Only these were two different kinds of reallys, and these were two different kinds of out loud. One is for differ

When I was nineteen, you were thirty two. So you're not ready to sleep just yet? I don't think I have any scars to compare to yours; no French to speak to you, unless you'd like me to count your sheep, because, well, I can do that. Un mouton. Gravity picked a fine time to pair up with reality. I was holding on to the world while everything else was spinning. I was holding on to fine lines, walking lines, artist lines. I was holding on to straight lines. Deux moutons. Dripping from my shoulder blades to my fingertips, gentle ice met the shaking body. Not quite the ice sculpture you might have hoped for, a little less stoic but mayb

"I won't let you fall," a hand extended. and still "I won't let you fall." and I'm sure he wouldn't let me fall that is he wouldn't let me fall at all. But there are           j a g g e d rocks below and dirt on my knees. there are signs telling me I shouldn't be here. There is just too much matinence being performed for this selective truth teller. Just me; shaking until the beat has shifted and the pattern isn't together anymore.