sleepthe boy with the kaleidoscope handsoffers me a revolver and we take turnssmothering plumes of breath and killinglapselands.bags of grieving skeletons hang from yourcliff eyes, dreading the momentwhen they will have to fly.
HandsHands were the subject of many discussions in our household. My mother used to trace the head and heart lines on my left hand and say, "Don't get too violent. You could kill someone." If those two lines connected, she warned, a person would be branded as aggressive, short-tempered, or mentally slow. It was spoken of by Thai ancestors, but I dismissed the story as pure folklore.This was never an issue for me. My palm lines snake past each other, with only a trickle connecting them. It was, though, for my brother. His palm lines collided and diverged angrily across his palm. Whether it be a coincidence or not, my brother grew older with a fierce temper and smoldering grudges. I grew feebly, contracting illness constantly and succumbing under a weak will. Years later, however, our roles switched and I was an angry, explosive preteen with no filter on my mouth. I still constantly have fits of rage, but I've begun to learn how to stifle them temporarily.As I grew, so did my hands. Others'
there's motor oil in our footsteps.not because she was slow, but becauseshe was the only one who'd managedto drown on an empty stomach (no tip for you, god, no rest for the wicked and the weary)and i am no mechanic.
heaven's aching bonesgod dreamed of you last night,and woke, terrified, under the tressesof heaven's wings.below, the autistic cities drink themselvesto sleep, dying slowly (taking flight).strobe headlights carry hollow bottles,and you are hollowed too.
bleeding pulsesi can unlock the sky with yourwinter bones. i'll run away with your shadow, beneath your footsteps, because sometimes, i am nostalgic for things i've never known. and sometimes, i am too bloodshy to ignite. i can only hope to find a cloudflood that carries two.after unearthing the atmosphere,i still cannot find you.
princesshydrogen lungs bound ingalactic ribs are undercardiac arrest.we left the moon on repeat,and the sun died drunk inthe avalanche of night.but it's alright this time,because she can alwayssave herself.
Constellations and Highways (Act 1)ACT 1Scene 1Birds chirping below clouds. Sun gleams. Enter Constellation Lady.CONSTELLATION LADY Once again, I grow weary of The same schedule every waking Dawn. I am bound to the stars, And am unable to leave my Domain of the clouds, unable To be released from the grasp of The sun.Enter Arctic Lady.ARCTIC LADY Whatever are you doing? You are due on the other side of The world. They will be curious As to where the stars are residing, And we are never to disrupt the Course of nature.CONSTELLATION LADY Do you ever wonder what It is like below the clouds? I Believe it would be wonderful.ARCTIC LADY [appalled] Why do you bring such A
DysfunctionalThe constellation lady married highway man.
Being HumanDear You,I believe that we were not destined to die,nor born to. I believe that we were born tobe dropped into the cesspool that is life, anddestined to cause ripples. The ripples, ofcourse, will eventually fade, but it's whatyou do when life is still rippling that makes asmall difference in this world. Because let'sface it: one can only be remembered for solong. Eventually, we will perish, along withthe ones who tried to keep us alive.It's not a pessimistic thought, per se. Thinkof yourself leaving behind a chain of memorieswhich will be worn down and forgotten overtime, but kept in pristine condition. The bondsyou created with others will be strong, notmalleable, to the point of closure. I hope youbuilt your chains strong enough, because onlya few will be left to tend to them when you'regone.This letter is written from and signed to youbecause I finally understand your message.Cherish your eleven p.m. shots of night,because some day soon you won't be able