Thursday I walked,
Hood high, pace quick
kicking waves within the gutters
Sending tree fallen sailboats
rushing from my feet.
I have a novel in my pocket
and another one to write,
on things a girl can learn
when she stands outside the pale.
My film, it keeps on running
Through chemicals and fog
the substances that pulse
through the channels in my mind.
Observations of mortality,
desolation, sin and grace
sit wrappen within the gray,
the filter of my view.
Photographs and memory
words and written things,
create archives of insanity
I cannot forget


A well polished blade
razored ribs
lurking below the pale
Inhale, collapse and hold.
Beauty's in the details
fine lines and parallels,
that run, tangled ribbons
in a shadowcast design.
Ana was yesterday
and is still perhaps, tomorrow.
Every moment sculpting
scraping away the excess
of shame and guilt
Between my ribs she gave me,
a hallow sort of place.
Ana's blade was carving,
And from her bones she built
a puppet out of me