the outcome

it's a suit
made
of lead,
filled
with water.

it's a protective coat,
manufactured
by practice.

there are holes
in the chest
proven in years
by the outcome
of scars.

this suit
doesn't float
but it protects
against
rips in the skin.

the next opponant
forgets the water,
and you can't even remember
to sharpen your blade.

the changing

once again,
it's the season
of clothes,
with nothing
to wear
but frost.

skin just isn't an option
anymore,
it's already been peeled,
fried
beyond repair, hanging,
left to wilt
on the naked tree
by the last day
of summer,

and we aren't even aware
as we are being
measured.

repetitive measures

i keep clicking
this mouse,
for hours,
like there's going to be
some holy message,
from a sender,
whose typeface
is like a blanket.

but
there is nothing that indicates
that someone
is trying to
contact me.

i've set myself up
this way.

my ipod plays,
and i haven't uploaded
any songs
since the beginning
of
last summer.

everysong
just bleeds
into everyday,

and right now
all i can hear
are the cicadas
going off
in my head.

i click
the mouse once more,
like this time
it'll be a prayer
that's finally been heard.

catch

the human brain
is a human child,
caught
in the center of
a human storm,
gripping nothing
but
a butterfly net.

and
at the end of the net,
the brain
contains a swarm
of mementos,
covered in it's own mucus,
secreting a thousand beliefs
that can never be proven.

we will either keep
or let the captives
go.

the better blood

this is a great society
of sharpened knives and
blunt objects
forced
into hearts
and backs.

every man, woman,
and child for themselves.

they will find you
with their pretty faces
and promises,

but all that they are,
are bloodsucking bats
with fangs disguised
as pillows
that'll make you fall
asleep,
as they feed.

it's a war
and you don't even know it.

but goddamn it,
there are always one,
or two,
or three people
that'll make you believe
in the possibilty
of something better.