They all can’t be winners. 

Wonder falls flat

chest above the nylon

sheets. 

They all can’t be winners. 

Tribute to the ones

that stayed

above waste level. 

Ride.

Ride fast and through

the seventh ring.

Ice Brutus’s stare

chases the bike as

he’s grounded up. 

Ride. 

Ride fast and through

the sixth ring. 

The parade starts and ends

on Mulan Boulevard.

Tribes painted blue and red

burn the flag before each meal.

The shadow

of the Candlestick

bares stripes 

across the orbital. 

Flame dancing 

to a hollow tune

and encouraged

by a dwarf draft

inching closer. 

Fickle fingers shine

lively dripping with

revolving cause in

the abandoned Theatre.

The dangling sheet

shifts

two steps north

to find footing

underneath Plum’s

wrath. 

Freezing tips of fine

knives peel my skin back

like a banana peel.

Dangling in Limbo

toes flying in comfort

of a home I once knew

cheeks plunging

deep into a shadow

pulling me deeper.

Breathing the darkness in

back of my throat

rushes down

swirls around the soul

and leaves before

my toes can touch

Earth.

I hear the call

day or night

mostly during the hail

I hear the call.

It comes and haunts me

like my shadow,

follows me around,

like a nightmare.

The ring and the voice

on the other line,

I hear the ring,

everywhere I go.

I found different versions

of myself

stored away in pockets

like lint

and bottom of caves

like Silence of the Lambs.

Dealt a pair of sixes

in the bottom of this pit.

Flipping a coin

two feet

switching between

light and dark

like a light switch

in an instant.

 

 

Window filled purple haze

traffic lights blend together

with no red white lines.

Crescent gaze through

stuffed clouds onto unfazed

cheeks moved through a

paused city.

Blue and pale illuminates

the brow ridge, unfazed

by the flashing faces,

unaware they stand still.

Seeking refuge in a case of Belgium whites

until baron night terrors turn glamorous.