a chilling light seeps in
as my restful night
turns gnarled teeth on me.
and in my questioning state,
I dare not leave stones unturned.

I pick, I poke, I tear
under the surface of the sun,
until I not only know the answers,
but hate myself for them.

selling my soul to the devil
may be my only chance of survival.

Her eyes dug deep within,
    buying me within a coffin heart..

All I could think about
                             was that kiss..

I still look for her in you.
You told me you could dig blue,
I said, "I dig you."
We shouted "Boo!" and "Happy Holidays" too.

But somehow I felt she was still in my queue.
What a picture for myself I drew,
Always focusing on the morning dew.
Labeling my fantasies as true,

Still figuring out how to shake her glue.
You were new, so I thought I’d be able to see you through.

We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.

We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination

rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--

we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.

We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.

With that realization we weep and

We continue to dig.