Better Flotsam Than Jetsam

One after the next, lifesavers crash into mountainsides. Stations await impending trains. The wind has died down now, it no longer slams shutters closed. The sound of rain pelting metal storm drains has at long last subsided. Perhaps a full night of sleep tonight.

Races Down Narrow Aisles

What is waiting one more day when every day is another wait? Action mends melting hours and animates empty faces, while in the distance, crowded words clatter.

Traditional Purge

Just me and the holy ghost out on the road, picking up strangers as we go. On highways and city streets, past ruins and chasms, in search of some great reward. We stopped in rural Missouri, where I spoke to a girl with an upturned nose and evergreen eyes. She said existence was useless without pity, and asked could I spare some of mine? I left her awaiting an answer, and returned to the ghost and our trail. I said to us both as I recalled her face, “neglect is not criminal.” For once in my life I was right.

Restlessness Syndrome

We marched east along with the procession, following parade floats racing into the abyss. We felt the chill of autumn’s breath raise tiny hairs on patches of exposed skin, and spied the purple stretch of sky conspiring to thwart the sunrise.

Maudlin Press

An image burned into my retinas is catapulted into outer space. In an attempt to connect I’ve accidentally shamed myself. What remains is an out-of-focus portrait. Now it is a long forgotten visage. Now it’s warm grain alcohol on a frigid evening. Frustration mounts as friends morph into foes. The witch! She’s sullied my good name.

Attack, Decay, Delay, Attach

Beneath and endless row of cracked windows where cheerful songs overflow into the streets, dirty shoes scrape the pavement in slow motion. Hearts swell and purge one final beat that echoes forever. We are of the undead, but we are not hopeless.

Lamentations Dredged From A Riverbed

It’s so cold and barren when you’re looking down and counting footsteps. Promises cannot be extracted once they’ve hardened into glaciers. What is hoarded leads to loss of feeling. What is frostbitten cannot be thawed. The only solution is a swift amputation.

On the Precipice of Failure

How far to reach the horizon? How far is the drop-off?

I’ve got the sniffles, and visibility is next to nothing.

Vanishing Skeletons Stripped of Skin

A modicum of hope remains that my time in this station is growing short. I remember when ice clung to these tree branches. I’d pass beneath and hold my breath, but in the end it took a month to melt.

Throwbacks and Revolutions

The markers sit outside some family’s front door, waiting to greet them whenever they step outside.