July 17, 2005

she slammed into the ground
and they called it breathing.
shards of consciousness stabbed and pricked at this numb mind
and the tingling sensation of sleep began to drowse its way through her toes
and up the arms
and into her tongue.

all the words
are static

A teaspoon of white-noise.


July 7, 2005

behind her eyes a ticking clock, a shattered window, a dripping faucet.
behind her hands shards of glass, a turning key, a damp cloth.
behind her thoughts a mass of graves, a hill of sand, and empty glass bottle.

thoughts and irritants, small ambient noises that pushed her through life led her to this one chair where she sat and rocked and waited.
the creaking of the wood floor, the shifting of her weight in the chair. the whirr of the fan. the slogging of the train. the snap of a door. all of it ambient and nothing.
but it put together simple life
and made it seem


July 3, 2005

something washed ashore, onto that beach of broken bones
and dreams of something aweful, the soft whispers that follow through your thoughts.
mindless meanings meander in mellow melancholy, a short monopoly of emotions.
Nervous nirvana, systematic reveiw of a rational retraction,
please re-type your response in a practical practiced manner.

lock your arms and open your doors.
your thoughts are all your armor.
resolve and re solve all those problems
and that glitch will be

July 1, 2005

if only that one step
towards the ending of the consequences
had been placed.

a hand over the heart
with fingers crossed behind the back
a treason is made
and nothing really mattered at all.

in the end, she sat back down and rethought over all the memories. She decided to change them all and re-write the past so that when she remembered, the remembering would be more real and satisfactory, instead of actually real and painful. the programming took days and monthes and weeks and hours and when she was done, she did not want to sit and remember, but walk away and forget everything. so she took a box and placed it all in side, locked it up and threw it down the cellar. shutting the green cellar door.
satisfaction in a static mind set, setting and slipping upon the slits and secrets that seemed to seep out and slumber around the yard.
wood floor rot and water damage walk ways. pathes all back to that destructive mind.

a stalker was born and locked. but these thoughts will not be perceived as a danger to her justice.