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its an art thing; art i do not do This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

decades of blood flow have worn away the skin of my hand. valleys of knuckles, hills of flesh with fur for grassy plains
on the unclaimed land i have hoarded in an attic not far from her. watch the as the sun rises beyond the lines
set behind caution tape, bright yellow, sunlight burns trespassers as they touch, caress
their fingers move across the boundary lines set forth by your own curves.


i’ve saved it, surveyed it, kept it in the
survival mode; come forth and claim your territory.
there is nothing there, the space between my limbs equates to all the words unspoken, our mutual silence abused to
the point of death. into oblivion it resides with it’s atoms scattered into the sifting winds of unknown, home of the
lost, misplaced, but desperately found. an escape requires contortion, your soul must be malleable, twisting and morphing
through the silver band on my finger.


you gave it, flex through. break your spine


to pass between the metals.
souls are foolish with hopes and intentions of moving through hoops to pass through the light of life in order to get the season two’s
première of existence, starring my heart dolled up as a functioning organ. watch as the main attraction crackles and thuds behind it’s
ribboned bars. beneath the skin, below the layers of softened rock with magma sliding through a vein, a circus lives, between my knuckles
watch the acrobats come play, lithe bodies moving with the sway of nature.


not bloated by youth, feel my waistline


and the lower bulge.
a designer cringes; décor is off key. i watch him leave the room, screaming helter skelter . a laughable cause,i’m sure he’s aware
that its unfixable. off set suede mean God spent his time unequally. molecules fawned over, molecules petted, molecules shut away in the
corner of a prom night bathroom, notice dance themes. a picosecond on the details, an eon on the theme, it’s noticeable, quite prominent.
shine bright, facets cut with the dull blade of the jewelers.


notice how this is done, notice when


became completed.
pull your knees to your chest, brace yourself, steady breaths ‘cause i’m about to break you some news; see the words above, a landscape of
imagination, of crinkled bits of paper i pilfered from beneath beds, that grey is your lifeline, watch it carefully now. leftover acrylic from a painter’s
canvas. we are the canvas, we are the art, note my crooked spine and see the droplets of egg yolk dripping with a movement.
a motion, a movement, a prima ballerina i am not


it’s my youth bleeding, it’s me


see me now, blue assed and ready.
pointillism reveals. another time you stare at itty bitty dots, remember that each blot of oil is a molecule forgotten.
artists re-define our entire molecular arraignment.
(a.c)




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