sean

i recall the hum in your voice and your shallow breathing as the golden flecks of summer danced across your cheeks in shapes. and i recall the warmth of the sheets after hours of sun and the faint outline of sweat that fell from both our forms. and i remember the mouth upon which you once used to kiss me like a chemical compound mixed with something sweet. but the bed we used to share turned to a feasting ground that only chose me to devour. and as you slept i fought to remain unchanged.

the grand canyon.

like the momentary tenderness of a weeping willow

outreaching to kiss the floor

it's vines inevitably, are blown astray.

Brasil

my clothing is plastered to my frame like new skin, as the sun shamelessly imposes it's rays upon me. i watch the heat rise from the pavement as sweat haphazardly drips down from the top of my lip to my chin. i recall previous encounters with similar pavements that i'd once closely inspected when i'd felt to dizzy to look at far more complex structures surrounding me. i distance myself from the memory for a second until i am paralyzed by the familiarity of the smell of opened beers and cigarettes and nearby ocean. I then hear the laughter, and music, and bottles. and cups, slamming at a distance. I hear pool sticks clinking pool balls and the toilets flushing. i hear chairs dragging and feet shuffling and halfway conversations. i suddenly am there reworked and rewound in a different time. i see peyton in cowboy boots and her blue high waist skirt holding a drink to her mouth as she says something unflattering to creyton. i see astarte leaning over the bar talking to sasha. i see the booth in front of me to the direct left of that bar and then i see them and him and worry that the closeness of the memory will never dissipate and i want to start again and see him but then look past him and back at my drink then leave.

light and hollow like an emptied egg shell. it feels quiet inside. nothing to power it forth or to hold still a substance. what is hidden is nothingness and yet it still feels compelled to conceal. the illusion of substance. the potential. the hope.

like a wound toy, i am beneath your hands being turned. mechanically i function as you tightly wind then release. i spin for a minute, moving a few inches before stopping. you are amused for a time then bored by my stillness. i am simply the over manufactured model with all the promised parts.

it wouldn't make a difference if i was made here or in china. it wouldn't matter if i was wired differently. as long as you could wind me, and release me..as long as i could appear to move alone, even a moment, even an instant.

Too Close series (pictures of pictures :( . )