In the bowels of the old post office
The printing press, like
a large rusted spider
makes a bed out of *****
yellow paper and
rotted cloth of postal bags.
It bides it’s time pondering
On how it was formed
and listening to the coyotes
at the moon’s apex over
a long stretch of prairie.

Resting in the post office
on a grassed plateau are black
iron machines that walk, crawl
and scurry but shouldn’t.
They spend their days
building nests and staring
into stagnant pools at
their own reflection.
Waiting for someone
to use them.

Activate prior knowledge,
like a tumor that resembles
a painting of Churchill,
circumlocution
more like an echolocution…
or is it echolocation,
perhaps electrocution?

The sigils of universal coincidences
have finally revealed themselves.
They’re aligning for you
right this very second.

A hair from your head
laying in the bathtub
that reminds
you of a letter
from a long forgotten
language.

A random pattern of a scratch
on your arm from a outstretched
coat hanger in a department store.

An odd configuration of blood
on your arm after you dispense
a pesky mosquito.

A rorschached blob of a condiment
on your favorite shirt.

It’s out there trying to tell
you something very important.

There.

In those things lies the truth.
As much as you don’t want to
believe in it…
As much as you want to
deny it.

It will not live
up to your
memory of it later
on.

You believe that men will give your life meaning, so you spend all your time chasing them, when all they do is chew you completely up and leave your for dead, over and over and over.

You so desperately want a man in your life to pick up your broken corpse and breathe life into it. If you wonder to close to me, I’ll show you the grave that I dug and pitch you into it.

Your life is horrible and meaningless and the only time you have a small moment of self worth is when there is a warm body next to you.

Handing over your body to me will not give you control. I know how bad you loath yourself. I know that the names of the men that you’ve bedded down have left you, and that’s a very troubling thing for you.

You sleep with any man you meet, looking for that familiar feeling, even if it’s just a fleeting moment. You don’t care, you try and keep this life secret from me, but then tell everyone else. I suppose you believe it will make your self worth rise up the ladder of debauchery .

I know why you won’t tell me. It’s because you are ashamed of what you do. You are ashamed of what you let yourself get away with. I know how hard you cry at night. And I know how much you want that one perfect man to change your life.

You are a pathetic creature. And me telling you any of this wouldn't break some new ground, it wouldn’t open your eyes to what you really are. It would only make you cover it up with more lies .

I’ve heard men whisper your name in hallways , bathrooms and locker rooms. It’s not much of a conquest when all you have to do to get in your pants is to give you some attention. Something your mother and father never gave you. It’s sad that you’ve never experienced real love and probably will never know what is.

Snow thinks it's sound
go on and fill the woods with me,
spread me evenly. My harness is burdensome
Without it though, I no longer see for miles
I fall into the darkest sleep dreaming of nuclear flakes
that take my vitality.

His mistake is the village, the burning frame of the farmhouse.
The harness drowned in the bones of the old horse.
I drank it all too easily.
Little years go by and back to the woods where I am evened
up by miles. Spread thin...

The darkest sleep dreaming still even though I am not here. triple helix and extra isotopes taint the touch.

Stop this and know how deep it goes.
The little bell that lays on the ground,
it tolls. He is his.
Snow thinks it's sound. It's, its.

How deep before we watch?
How many fathoms before I dream?
Before I disappear?

Only the shake of the bell
will keep it's promise.