Crime-light 

X-ray

Mercury-vapor reflections pool in your eyes. Tears spill over the edge, running in rivers of the past, washing whirlpools of pain. We shower in our ignominy. Standing alone under the light we are naked, vulnerable, and exposed; trembling with the fear that honesty brings. That the world sees us for what we are, that we see ourselves for what we are, not what we wish we were. You can try but your going to get it wrong, we all get it wrong. We trip and stumble, the ground is laid so that we fall. Bodies pile in the gutters, swept to the side, just another obstacle. Their blood lubricates the gears underground that keep the big machine churning, constantly in motion. Our equilibriums are thrown off by jarring tectonic shifts. Familiar neighborhoods are swallowed whole over night, leaving confusion and dislocation.

Low Moon 

Jungle Song

Muscles are pulled, ripped, torn from the bone and separated from each other. The only noise I can hear is the wall of blood rushing in my ears. My pulse beats in the tip of my nose with the violence of a hammer. I feel as though I could explode with every exhale, every inhale brings me back together with an implosion from my chest inwards to the back of my spine. Electric fingers play me like an exotic instrument, pent and bursting out like a pump organ. My song is a jungle noise, filled with dark nights and red moons that hang low on the horizon. We lose ourselves in the eyes of the other, brought back by the stirring of vegetation; the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves. Our bodies are lean from running over the jungle floor. The night makes us move, we are lunar powered. The vines hang and catch us in their web making us each a marionette, our arboreal strings being pulled; we dance under the fat moon, gross exaggerated movements with each tug. The natives are restless and dance to ward us off. We are the evil spirits that haunt their forests. The reason their fires burn through the night.