1189.

Found in a night left
to celebrations and set
focuses forward.

1188.

A lapse of senses.
Chilled air and burning wood, a
juxtaposition.

1187.

An embodiment
of the outward, painted in.
A slow surrender.

1186.

Caught up in a soft
lassitude. The muted lows
of winter, stretching.

1185.

The season marches
through your bones in cold whispers.
Always left haunting.

1184.

So quickly the day
passes from glory back to
the ceaseless banal.

1183.

Trees, presents, and food.
Glut yourself with joy because
regret lasts longer.

1182.

A celebration
on the cusp. Merry Christmas
Eve wee little bairns.

1181.

Cold days press down on
a soul's struggle to fill in
the missing hollows.

1180.

Back to the season.
Hello winter, deceptive
though your months may be.

1179.

The majority
will lamentably still wake
up tomorrow. Breathe.

1178.

The weary just shrug
at the notions prevailing.
Life will continue.

1177.

Enjoy the bounty
while it lasts children. Soon the
circle jerk returns.

1176.

Belief instead a
matter of celebration
for one short window.

1175.

Instead focus on
the beauty of a season
lit up by wonder.

1174.

So sayeth the loons
and perennially, set
paranoids. Calm down.

1173.

The year in short sum,
destruction is the answer
at its coming end.

1172.

Full of negative
turns for the hopeful end. Such
a contradiction.

1171.

A drugged specter for
the paranoid. Lost children
of the waning times.

1170.

Where Bukowski's words
come true. Slavery extends
rather than finds end.

1169.

The hook, though, still sinks
on realism. Depressive's
true mass opiate.

1168.

Of course there are still
underlines for a future
lure. Buy into hope.

1167.

An astounding shelf
life on redundancy. If
only some would die.

1166.

Inconsolable
intentions. Stunted progress
set continual.

1165.

Degrees of a lost,
certain insensate. Struggle
captured in motion.

1164.

We're all little more
than a stopped gap of stories.
Too full and bursting.

1163.

It's almost the view
of some silent objector,
set Clockwork Orange style.

1162.

Redundant motion.
Pure fodder for a watcher's
brutal ridicule.

1161.

A preying despair.
The upside down meter on
hope and a future.

1160.

A cessation of
the presumptives. We are all
susceptible still.

1159.

Remembering a
fight that as yet has no end.
AIDS Awareness Day.

1158.

Monuments and their
moments. Such a difference
by intonation.

1157.

A hippy type of
tone for the season. Rather
this than emptiness.

1156.

An entire world
built on loneliness. Subsist
instead on shared loved.

1155.

The lessons of an
underscored acquaintanceship.
Familiarity.

1154.

Anonymity
and all of its lures. Risking
the comfort of known.

1153.

A gulf widening.
Disconnect and engagement.
An opposite world.

1152.

Sometimes history
is the greatest comedy
in any story.

1151.

Summed up as the line
drawn between subjugation
and found ownership.

1150.

Gluttony masked as
family. An irony
in slow manifest.

1149.

Another mirror
is shown here on the cusp of
a day found in lies.

1148.

Because this union
is still the underside of
it's own future, past.

1147.

A lesson in fine
print for every objective.
Even the dissolve.

1146.

The dissonance of
which will long hang after the
finish has been found.

1145.

Love thus becomes more
subservience than its own
controlled emotion.

1144.

Simply left as a
possession of the other's
brutal ownership.

1143.

Where a person is
found and distanced from his or
her identity.

1142.

Relationships can
be colonialism.
Conquer and exploit.

1141.

So the attention
instead makes a slow pan for
relating. Just love.

1140.

Backwards logic, a
study in anthem. Here known
as epitomized.

Regardless, today
holds its own honor in a
man, celebrated.

1139.

A forgotten day
to honor those we pretend
didn't die for us.

1138.

A mirror to the
pattern of justice, that just
defeats itself here.

1137.

Even the loudest
speakers get silenced when their
meaning doesn't suit.

1136.

A highlight of set
invisibility. Each
soul lost in darkness.

1135.

And so little is
changed by these empty efforts.
Delusion's comfort.

1134.

A million voices
split down between two narrow
choices. Irony.

1133.

Nothing can be so
easily shrugged. Seconds lost
in machinations.

1132.

The staggered fractures
of time fall backwards, as if
in oblivion.

1131.

A world held slave to
a forever ticking clock.
Winding down each life.

1130.

Found in a billion
souls needing celebration.
Screaming, remember.

1129.

The union of love
and sorrow flung out toward
the heavens. Save us.

1128.

Today is hallows,
horror, and hanging. So be
careful boys and girls.

1127.

An eliciting
of the craven, that is then
vilified. Awkward.

1126.

What is it about
humans that celebrates while
subjugates together?

1125.

A slight romantic
idealism dressed on the
remnants of horror.

1124.

Monsters and death just
close bosom beaus in concert
with joy over fear.

1123.

Fear a surrender
sought to balance the mundane.
Dress up for adults.

1122.

Crawling toward this
season of upended soul's
frivolity. Check.

1121.

A backwards dance of
limbs, always breaking. Nothing
left. Stuttered movement.

1120.

The wrongness of these
presumptions just hang. Killing
gentle hope between.

1119.

Treating privacy
as incidental instead
of necessary.

1118.

Secrets upended
for the crowd's pleasure. A slow
soul's public torture.

1117.

Extrications that
dig out the undersides to
find the truth beneath.

1116.

An emotion's slow
surgery. To search out the
disease, pervading.

1115.

Rebuilt structures set
to afford hope in fragile
keeping. Hearts open.

1114.

My own ennui an
inheritance from the heart
that bore me. Fitting.

1113.

The world can seem just
built for apathy. Interest
wanes after a blink.

1112.

Until the next run
of morality comes back
for the quad fucking.

1111.

Soon the redundant
pattern of pointless caring
will return to blank.

1110.

Disingenuous
shadows and toil. The game of
politics. Ugly.

1109.

Sowings and reaps. A
science fiction dialogue
that masks the raping.

1108.

Each person fallen
to this pedagogy. A
myopic justice.

1107.

An epidemic
of self-harm for the herding.
Blind sheep to the cliff.

1106.

The backwards system
of misinformation masked
as education.

1105.

Back to history
of memorization and
rewritten "fact".

1104.

Each year my birth gets
further away, the loss hangs
closer. Celebrate.

1103.

The gap between is
bridged on the gulf of future
movement. Forward, back.

1102.

Love in a soul's cut
duality. Romantic
notions. Gluttony.

1101.

My heart, split in two,
embodied in one person.
No one could mean more.

1100.

Spent first in honor
of this heart's other side in
skin. Tomorrow friend.

1099.

Pretty thoughts of want
noted by a girl crawling
closer to her day.

1098.

The obvious choice
for modern capitalists.
Avarice for all.

1097.

Empty effort, just
materialism and
greed. A patriot.

1096.

Every day its
own backwards kind of Christmas,
left out, sans belief.

1095.

A lesson in how
to dress up disuse for
a season's party.

1094.

A continual
game of masochism for
heart's slow beginner.

1093.

So the shovels can
only dig within until
the soul is unearthed.

1092.

Voracious without
direction. A broken love's
compass, pointing in.

1091.

Until nothing can
grow past the reach of hungry
heart's hibernation.

1090.

Where fall and winter
coat both ground and mind in a
willful surrender.

1089.

Bringing the season
of death just that much closer.
Suitable tribute.

1088.

A fitting end to
summer under this shroud of
disaffected choice.

1087.

Returning us all
back to a past that didn't
work the first time round.

1086.

Next up, the hunting
of heretics and burning
difference. Again.

1085.

That changed because of
unsustainable patterns
for the future world.

1084.

A world of progress
rewound under archaic
standards of gross loss.

1083.

Because nothing worth
keeping, past fighting, survives
this idiots' game.

1082.

Reason undercut
by disillusioned doctrine.
Losers' paradise.

1081.

A key component
to all life that is getting
too easily lost.

1080.

Because the choice of
mores is different than its law.
Tend to the nuance.

1079.

Highlighting the fore -
sight of a separation:
church v. state always.

1078.

When needing your own
best gets lost in forcing that
script out on others.

1077.

Only the pursuit
of its manifestations
can come at a cost.

1076.

But the idea of
a belief in something more
is not itself flawed.

1075.

Similar to the
concept of religion. The
use can fuck it up.

1074.

A game of trial
and error with hearts. Only
fragile surrender.

1073.

An exercise in
repeated futility.
No one choice answers.

1072.

The heart trapped within
disparate purpose: trial
versus memory.

1071.

My sense of love and
family sometimes lost in
backwards progression.

1070.

Today's honor spent
for this heart's mirror, cast by
fate and willful luck.

1069.

The return instead
is framed in celebration,
however lazy.

1068.

And a long absence
folds itself in halves until
just shadows remain.

1067th.

Patriotism
is believing in something
that exceeds blind faith.

Hiatus.

This blog will go dark for the months of June, July, and August 2012. Postings will resume September 1st, if anyone is still interested. Enjoy your summer my lovelies and see you back as we crawl toward fall.

1066.

Impatience coached as
inspiration. Now that is
the adult in me.

1065.

Crawling out of my
skin to make tomorrow here
before today's gone.

1064.

I suddenly feel
like a teenager again.
Full of hopes and plans.

1063.

That calls for long trips
into its promises of
excitement to come.

1062.

Green and blue as far
as the eye can see, in a
brilliant, blinding haze.

1061.

The charm of spring turned
toward summer finally
leaving its beauty.

1060.

Must restart the show
before the curtain is pulled.
Cliches amuse me.

1059.

Damn this lazy soul
that only pushes itself
to get in its way.

1058.

But then, what else makes
it so hard other than me?
What a fucking slag.

1057.

If only being
that free were so simple an
effort, reaching out.

1056.

Dancing along the
edge of an orgy of all.
Just waiting to fall.

1055.

An embrace of love,
lust, and all its myriad
experiences.

1054.

Selfish for the sake
of oneself because who else
means more to this shell?

1053.

Grab with hungry fists
at all the joy this short run
grudgingly offers.

1052.

It is enough to
advocate all the vices
cut for extension.

1051.

Much less the lessons
implicit in all its bare
moments. Why bother?

1050.

Where the point to this
existence will probably
not ever be known.

1049.

Tied hands making for
their ever small comforts, the
inevitable.

1048.

Mocking the idea
of options when only one
is available.

1047.

Where the watcher knows
that to live is to obey.
A slow threat of mores.

1046.

A game of focus
staring out past the nooses,
in sight, just swinging.

1045.

The author, though, is
just left with its empty truth.
Always there, hanging.

1044.

Because a reader
is subject to any range
interpretation.

1043.

Regardless of the
depth of its content, or lack
there, obviously.

1042.

But then, I'm of the
staunch belief that writing is
for the author first.

1041.

Sometimes these little
notes amuse me more than I'm
sure they do readers.

1040.

It's like every boy's
secret worst fear rolled into
a cold, dripping mess.

1039.

Even though nothing
says haiku topics quite like
sodomy and sad.

1038.

Now comes the overt
attempt to over-handed
shift the direction.

1037.

Of course, the mental
image on that depends on
the choice of vision.

1036.

When the fucking comes
so frequently that the ass
doesn't even flinch.

1035.

Irony on the
edge of each machination.
Tender sodomy.

1034.

A game of portend
and foreshadow that fucks its
own agenda first.

1033.

Retarded effort
stretching itself out into
the dark infinite.

1032.

Caught in the stasis
of forward motion stuck in
perpetual pause.

1031.

Trying to find its
own sun to gain momentum.
Wake up little b.

1030.

The only rebirth
happening here is the slow
migration of will.

1029.

Back to strained muscled
and tired bones. What an odd
spring revival here.

1028.

Reset with the week's
start. Trying to find my feet
again. Laggard toes.

1027.

Not as if chatter
is so different from what is
normally set here.

1026.

So instead you get
three days of just empty talk.
Doubt that you'd notice.

1025.

A break from the line.
Today I'm sick and in no
mood to make haiku.

1024.

Wouldn't the children
learn from that? Me and V.C.
Andrews - tainting kids.

1023.

Whos-Brenda and the
hunger eating her out from
the in. Imagery.

1022.

If only Dr.
Seuss wrote a book to figure
out that small riddle.

1021.

Especially true
when it is oneself up for
dinner. Such a feast.

1020.

Can hearts really be
anything but cannibals
where love is concerned?

1019.

Even an attempt
at reversals finds itself
turned inwards. Eating.

1018.

Is this misshapen
lure the pull of spring? Give and
take with death's sidebar?

1017.

An eternity
made of Sisyphus and that
damn futile effort.

1016.

Apparently there
is no escaping this hill
once the boulder starts.

1015.

Slave to a life built
entirely of hormones
and their destruction.

1014.

Then my body just
follows along. The happy
little puppeteer.

1013.

Are these twinges and
palpitations real or just
some script my mind reads?

1012.

Sometimes I wonder
how much of a feeling I'm
manufacturing.

1011.

Then reversal and
erasure. Over myself
for this next sequence.

1010.

A Gaiman novel
made real. A dissolute scape
of heart and future.

1009.

The only recourse
left for the weak to learn strength
to beat its own self.

1008.

Soul emptied and arms
bare, an exercise in pain
turning on itself.

1007.

Until the only
thing left is just a shell of
the person left hung.

1006.

Then the world is gone
in a Noah-esque blink that
the inside out.

1005.

An ocean of night,
encroaching ever onward
until it swallows.

1004.

With little left but
empty eyes all staring up
at the dark above.

1003.

A landscape of the
unrealized. Love and hope
that blinds itself here.

1002.

Disgruntled hearts set
forever to a dream that
will never be found.

1001.

A perennial
sense of inner disfavor.
No one happy here.

1000.

Ignorant of the
future that turns the efforts
backwards to children.

999.

A backwards window
full of little girls dressed up
like too grown women.

998.

Who to blame when the
burden is really the choice
of its carrier?

997.

Always following
some instinctual pull that
usually lies.

996.

Charades to all but
the central figure who trusts
with eyes closed. Dumb girl.

995.

Deception coached as
so much theater. Actors
and their rehearsals.

994.

All the power held
over head by the quick hands
off stage of its shows.

993.

Then comes the puppets,
miming out lines to trick the
focus from their strings.

992.

A game of slight and
shadows with only the choice
victim set. Outline.

991.

How can the heart of
the questioned so easily
break? Perfidious.

990.

Where the intentions
of the breach could be masked a
different shade of lie.

989.

That might have been a
better work of fiction to
believe, follower.

988.

Foresight might have built
a sheath in those ribs to keep
weapons. Self defense.

987.

The only language
that the betrayer truly
knows. Knives and backs, all.

986.

Needing a Greek form
of reprisal to usher
in some change. Revenge.

985.

A persistent type
of agony dressed up like
a heart's surrender.

984.

Where the first only
speaks promises but never
fulfills them second.

983.

Thumping out each beat
in a discordant turn of
love's hypocrisy.

982.

Evoked in a dark
mirror to the tandem of
a lost heart's echo.

981.

Where the cynic owns
the day but the night is left
to tender hope's dreams.

980.

That the world one knows
inside their head is never
as real as outside.

979.

Taken from a head
that learned its first lessons on
emotion early.

978.

A heart that still turns,
full of idealism and
a realist's hung hope.

977.

A shadow made of
contradictory thoughts here,
lost in its struggle.

976.

This results in a
set miserliness born of
fragile bitterness.

975.

Bearing grudges for
each slight returned without its
full, tender measure.

974.

This body less a
woman and more a mountain
built of resentment.

973.

Even the smallest
of tears offered as gifts will
be mourned by taking.

972.

Hoarded down to its
smallest pieces, this heart gives
lament for its share.

971.

Such a dangerous
prospective is a love full
of hope and wishes.

970.

Needing some balance
to anchor these emotions
back to some safety.

969.

Shown by this woman's
heart as a ship. Forever
searching for its moor.

968.

Adrift even when
still without an anchor voiced
as forever lie.

967.

Resigned to shifting
landscapes within their arms, no
matter its set length.

966.

A heart full of birds,
changed into perpetual
flight with each season.

965.

Held from the inside out
how quickly people turn their
purported feelings.

964.

Who never learned what
heartbreak was despite a life
full of its lessons.

963.

That shows a quiet
truth. I still love like I'm a
child. Innocent.

962.

With a dangerous
underside hiding in all
my soft dismissals.

961.

Seeing only her
passion instead of the claws
behind that coy mask.

960.

Questing out new paths
across stupid men and all
their blind neediness.

959.

Little viper with
a monster biting out on
her tongue, stays licking.

958.

That, when amplified,
turns an innocence into
action. Restless slut.

957.

Insatiable in
its lust. A frenzy of need
and desperation.

956.

Her mouth sends out a
constant turn of teeth and tongue,
a vicious hunger.

955.

Pillars and the snakes
who cast them back. How biting the
judgment of a girl.

954.

How biting the view
back from that reflection can
be. Evil vision.

953.

Ruled by a woman
caught up in her little throne
of melodrama.

952.

A general sense
of ennui in the air these
days. Heart pollution.

951.

Flatlines and mirrored
cliches. Redundancy here
and ready to stay.

950.

Stuck in a pattern
that needs to find its life
expectancy switch.

949.

Nature little more
than yet another endless
repetition. Turn.

948.

Dissolution of
self rebirthed into the next
cycle of some life.

947.

The answer to all
its riddles in that simple
action. Death for love.

946.

The first salvos of
dyslexic feeling to start
this month of flowers.

945.

A vicious lesson
in juxtaposition by
emotional drought.

944.

Some needed response
to the desolation of
a season without.

943.

The mockery of
gestated love expended
out on just one day.

942.

Perhaps this is why
Valentine's could never come
mid-summer and sun.

941.

The fragility
of being alone never
so real as winter.

940.

Strangers and lovers
alike seeking some pull to
end this awareness.

939.

Yet and still, ugly
weather bears an odd allure.
Everyone spellbound.

938.

The absolute wrong
kind of cunnilingus dream
for loins to enjoy.

937.

Drowning in the cry
of a desperate hunger
that eats out each heart.

936.

A lonely call that
envelops an entire
city swept to sea.

935.

The sky a grey pall
that reverberates hopeless
desire to all.

934.

Found in the dull hum
of a world shrouded in ice.
Cold fallen under.

933.

Echoed out in some
tired permutation a
million times over.

932.

Some wonder here that
any of us survived the
onset of patterns.

931.

Shown through the ease of
two hands to both coddle and
break between its palms.

930.

Regurgitation,
persistent for all of its
inherent damage.

929.

A bipolar soul's
dream. Frantic, manic highs and
devastating lows.

928.

The fired synapse
of burnt-out intentions. This
is your heart on love.

927.

A secret treasure
for the self-medicated.
Steady addiction.

926.

Still left to just its
catalogue across a screen.
Empty therapy.

925.

An emotional
stunting, weary of its
unfinished edges.

924.

Amazing how much
the older I get, the more
retarded I feel.

923.

A breakup of the
soul within. Yet more messy
cliches wrapped in meh.

922.

A weary showdown
between mind and heart even
when housed together.

921.

As even in quests
for change, the tired still hangs
regularity.

920.

Choices left to the
responsibility of
its grudging bearer.

919.

Skylines still tinged with
the lingering hope of a
difference to last.

918.

Then the will to see
the machinations of a
new day to the end.

917.

Enough of tired,
passive melodrama here.
Restarts just need push.

916.

Reminders of the
past litter this landscape in
a disjointed mess.

915.

A new day dawns with
nothing but time different
from the one before.