Our fingertips are getting so cold in the places we call home.
Putting themselves to sleep with braille goose bump bed time stories.
As our bone marrow weathermen  predict another liquid nitrogen winter.

Lately we have been falling apart like glacial walls.
Our chips off the old block selves falling short
Sinking deeper with all this new pressure and all the cold.
The last of our oxygen seeping through the cracks of our lungs as our time on the bottom runs out.
As our face in the gutter hourglass runs low.
Until we forget why were looking up.
The air bubbles are slipping through our lips like rubber balloon landmines that we've blown our hopes into.
And the places we house those dreams are beginning cut loose the strings that we have been holding onto
The childhood fantasies that are better let go.
Mostly our views of perfection an
d of affection that we should no longer be grasping.
Until we are almost bursting and all that fills our minds are the thoughts of red iron razors
The ones we grow when we think of our wrists.

And I am hoping that they can drag their metallic fingers through the flesh of those message in bottle balloons til they burst
so we can cut out the silence we have been thinking so long and fill it with some ****** inspiration

But the nights are still getting darker with tongues of shadow frostbite
and ever since our nomadic tendencies saw our survival expectancies
we have been moving around in our own skin with foster kid frequencies
wearing our heart sleeves rolled up because we don't want to get hurt again.

We are sensitive to light and you are diamonds and that scares us.

because even sunlight has a history of dripping agony
and the chances are high that we end up dancing with bad luck when the sky falls.
Stepping on cracks and filling shoes with puddles.

There's a cold war going on in our hearts
and were scared of the deja vu fallout of another nuclear winter
and you like to tango with destrucion
so we duck and cover behind the bright side of the sun
we live in shadows to protect our eyes from unclear reactions
Seeking shelter in empty alleyways
Under Gothic styled rib cages

And in the hollow places that we locked away our heart
We thew away the keys.

We have the same sickness as Icarus and we are burning up like a candle in the core of the earth.
Because we already have swallowed so much blue sky salt water
We have downed glasses and glasses of your unpredictability
and its been flowing counterclockwise down our throats
stinging like back stabbed golden friendships
like out cast creation
like the heartbroken rejection that had so much promise that we believed in it
and put our hearts into it
and then were broken
and burnt
like Alexander libraries and tornado explosions

Its been so lonely being safe.
Its been so cold.
So if you ask me how many heart beats I skipped for you
Ill tell you millions
Ill tell you life times
Ill tell you that I have missed you symphonies and that you should come home.

I've carved a place in my lock for your key.
I've looked up at the stars with wide eye telescope desire
and I want to dance with you and your big dipper hands.
I've worn chameleon skin for far to long and loved you under my breath even longer.

Your brilliance scares me but please let me join you.
I am sick of hiding behind shutters and stutters and dark water.
I am sick of thinking of razors and space and being alone.

We could blind the world together
You and I
Two happy people burnt into the memories of the universe.

The weathermen were not prepared,
the storm turned West towards the shore
For eighteen hours it came down
in blinding sheets three feet and more.
It buried cars, it covered streets
It weighted down branches
on the trees, it dusted roofs
It snarled the roads, The winter
storm did as it pleased

When it was done, the air was calm
a cold serene and peaceful scene.
The snow in drifts lay on the ground
as I looked upon what once was green.


Then, as whiteness overawed the earth
A single red snowdrop appeared.
It briefly touched the snow draped earth
then rose again towards heaven's sphere
then one by one, here and there
flakes disengaged and rose on high
until all the snow that was earthbound
in blinding flight had disappeared.

In a flash, the snow was gone
The fields of earth once more were green
No traces of the storm remained
like a half remembered dream.

when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will never understand.

- when you first go to run your hands through her hair, her halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt like hell. she will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and leave so abruptly that she is gone almost before you even blink. the thing you will see is her at the doorway. terrified eyes, blood stained hair.

(later, she will tell you that she never realized how breakable humans could be. when she explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you begin to understand )

- ask her about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away. ask her whether or not the universe looks like a blooming garden. never ask about lucifer - she will become a soldier before your eyes.

and not, do not, donot, ask about god.

do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee mothers.

(do not infer about a war you know nothing of)

- in a science class you are taking simply for extra credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. he will explain galaxies and refer to stars as "celestial bodies," but you won't be listening. suddenly you will only be able to think of the way her mouth curls at the sides, of the way her golden skin glows, of all the puckered scars that crisscross her torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of her foot. celestial bodies are certainly on your mind but they are so much more than gas and light and heat and touch and --- oh heavens ---

when the teacher asks if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. supernova.

(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but at other times, it is not)
- beware when you fight, it is like the world is ending. her anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire country is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightning catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs – something about duty, something about god – and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the foundations. the weathermen talk about the storm for days. you flinch and change the channel.

(no matter how right she is, she will always let you win)

- there are times when she won't visit for months on end, and when she finally comes back to you, she is not herself. there are new scars across her chest, and she does not speak. she sits with you in her arms for hours, her nose buried in your hair, and her arms squeezed tight, so tight. she does not cry. you do not cry.

you do(not) cry.

(but you do remember the miles and miles of white scarring. you wonder if angels are as immortal and unbreakable as they think)

i. How the weathermen can predict happiness. Especially my mother's. Especially Swiss weathermen.
ii. I am glad that winter' is here, for finding warmth in the itch of wool, hat around ears, socks over knees.
iii. I am trapped in between walls and other people's walls and my bookcases and their bookends that may not ever end but can look like ends and ends and no no ends to the layers built in brick, all boxed in beyond this building. And my words are trapped in my mouth. They escaped from my mind to my mouth and now I don't trust them on my tongue.
iv. The strangeness of Roman numerals and the study of such numerals.
v. Is there a word for the study of numerals, specifically those of the Romans? There must be, as there is one for the act of eating whilst lying down, a fear of having fears, and the delusion that one is a cat.
vi. My wrists. No watch.
vii. Watch out for what you must keep a hold on, but know there are some things you need to just L.E.T.G.O.
viii. Morse code, S.O.Ss', plurals on top of plurals, mnemonics, anagrams, one blink for yes, lasts longer for no.
ix. Photoraph of my cousin on the day I found out she was going to die and we are kissing at the camera.
x. X for the kiss I need from the right one, or for the answer, and something telling me I got it wrong.
xi. Thinking is counter-intuitive when I'm thinking too much of absences. Silences. My thoughts don't know where to go and neither do my eyes and I can't look up because the photograph will look back down.
xii. Look at yourself. Steps: reflection; dissection; cut. it. out.
xiii. I cried harder than I have ever cried since I can remember a while ago and it's wasn't even a Wednesday or a Tuesday then, and those are my crying days.
xiv. When I get touched, I go back in time, sometimes.
xv. Transformations.
xvi. Condensation. Where do clouds come from? There are things we see everyday and we say we know exist with not a clue about how they work. How does a ball find its bearings? Where did the train begin to lay down its tracks?
xvii. Questions. Questions. Quote: Indecisions and revisions. Unquote: the more you cut it up, the more divisions.
xviii. How many parts am I divided into now? How many incisions? I can't keep count.
xix. The sun sets early in winter and the comfort of darkness is something you can count on. It stays longer, and you can count on that too.
**. Kiss kiss, one for me and one for you.
xxi. This doesn't count.

Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.

There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.

For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.

It's like a pit (a
massive gap in the thoughts that
unsettles you)

and (lest your resolve be crushed to
a fine powder suitable only for the most
tasteful framing)
saturates conversation like a
virus

but there's a problem with this
invitation, if only to

convince yourself the gap is
useful, (that it's a landmark of
sorts, a real treasure, why not
picnic next to it, make up stories
and holidays and marvel at the
obvious ingenuity of the earth in
creating such a beautiful loss)

at the end of the festival, (when the
streamers have faded and
the food lies stale, when the cars have
herded their people home for the
night and the moon reclaims
her sky from clingy weathermen)

it is still a hole, (and you might
fall in).

Stories about people aren’t really about people
this tale is a separate reality
full of opinions and perception based senses
I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast
the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know

She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets
flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph
through our quiet suburban town
she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution
you see, she was in love with blinding pain
out of control burning rubber scented pain
and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt
I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat
because her words are precious diamonds

Her mind is a museum built upon three floors
the first floor is tragedy
concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions
of what feeling safe is like
shadows with shark like teeth
she can never escape their threat of gnawing
it even reaches her on the roof

the second floor is forest green
in-between escape and peaceful freedom
she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities
an explorer of broken wide eyed hope
she could smile at a mosquito and every spider
would willingly starve to death

the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire
a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean
everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras
of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country
dependent on chemicals
she will never get the shooting star she deserves
because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears
a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids