five-syllable sonnets I - XXV | XXVI - L | LI - LXXV | LXXVI - C i figure, if i write enough, i'll make one perfect phrase.
LXXVI he felt wars through his fingers, each callous a reminder of the battles he lost and the people he lost. every time he blinked he saw the dead on the insides of his eyes. they called. they beckoned, their faces gaunt and dying, flesh keeping him up at night. his heart beat with their missing tendons.	LXXVII blood and organs. the shells of the dead roam over rolling streams now tainted with blood. we run, we run 'til our legs break off, but they won't stop until they are satisfied. they smell us; they can hear our every move ments. we are covered in their entrails. when does it end? when will they finally die?
LXXVIII in fortunes folding we align the stars to our elegance. enduring empty greenbacks, false money, empty money, souls submerged by money, we counteract our own demise within credit cards and all. the rain descends. six billion in squalor. six billion grasping for an ounce of life.	LXXIX bright bubbles, open loving arms, diners, boys embracing the turgid waters, five misunderstood min utes. i am left here with the devil, sat here agreeably in dark robes flowing over hell, alone and shaking 'til my sides ache. minutes, pretty eighteen, all wrapped in cellophane.
LXXX money bore a black hole in our sides, dug until we felt numb. on seaside platforms and carousels we sang our little hearts out for pennies and nickels too dirty for rich men to keep. sandwiches mainly bread and mayo. the iron smell of our determination-- seems to be priceless.	LXXXI i am in love with you. i spill my heart onto the carpet, shapes and stains of love congealing onto the dirty beige floor. fourteen lines of five syllables is not enough to say what you deserve to hear. you are what light strives to become. the heavens look to you for golden advice.
LXXXII in the aeroplane two wings to guide me a destination with you and future sewn inside. jet fuel seething, heaving, push ing tons of metal through snowdrift skies. i am bound to you by airports, each plane a reminder of intense desire. the plane moves faster, engulfed in whiteness.	LXXXIII for a moment all is white. a moment suspended in air. gravity reminds me where the ground is. white, all white, and then-- the sky, blue as the day i was born, for gotten for a while but now blazing as hot as the sun. i need sunglasses. we dodge air currents, bound where gravity pulls.
LXXXIV she found god in a book, and jesus told her too many things in too many chap ters. she, mystified, read on, learning the tricks of the trade for morality. soothed, with another's path to guide her, she sipped coffee and fashioned her fat in her head. simple, honest ways to be close to god.	LXXXV a steward handles the court when the king is gone. so, what of a stewardess? she keeps cabin while the pilot flies. pretends to know all about the craft she is in. a political misnomer, sure, but 'steward' is so much more attractive. it signifies something. 'flight attendant' sucks.
LXXXVI the topography of this flight is sim ply fascinating. these mountains formed by tectonic pushing, these rivers winding, these pillows of clouds with seemingly aim less direction, pushed by invisible currents. this airplane tears through nature, and its willing par- ticipent, onward.	LXXXVII he could think of no thing else to say. in dim light, sectioned off, rain and the closing of windowpanes. he would not scream into falling raindrops. 'i am running out of money,' he said to himself. cursed his limp pockets. walked home with no real sense of dir ection, ambling port and starboard all night.
LXXXVIII drunk and lolling, a half-man supining on the damp forest floor, face careening toward pine needles, can't keep his eyes straightened, impotent to the world, shooting blanks on crimson walls. in seconds, grounded, mouth full of dirt and pine, crying softly, but in the forest, do his teardrops make a sound?	LXXXIX the end of my own dynasty. i struck a deal with this town and it has failed me, forcing me to roam, adept at nothing but my own uncon scious survival. i manage. in thousands of years our names will engrave everything. enlightened only by necessity of our own movement.
XC in distance sirens cascade around me. a city's taxes arranged in bright lights and hurried motions. they send men against a royal blue sky to aid, to put out, to extinguish, to manhandle poor de fenseless souls hurting. in distance sirens betray their purpose. watch us surrender.	XCI interred in modern amphitheatre; when in doubt, semi- circle. plastic gray rainbow stretches for students with sleepy eyes. energy in strong brown coffee and cream. dawson taylor, god bless your tailored caffeine loaded dy namics. a man in jeans and jacket talks with hand in pocket.
XCII i am broke. shortened life due to shortened money. filled with art, beautiful motion, and nothing to show for it but its own creation. money. were our currency poems, then, then i would be rich. if my wealth were measured in dance, in lit'rature, i would have my house on a golden hill.	XCIII i just wrote a few terrible poems. sometimes you have to get the crap out to find the treasure. the problem is, i find myself with more crap than treasure, desperate to exercise the emotional pounds out of my noggin. swimming in a sea of mental shit smells not so wonderful.
XCIV delightfully i rolled around in the carpet, pressing my face into the strands rippling under my weight. a thousand stand tall, crushed beneath shoes, feet, socks, dreams, parties. an endless supply of people who will not survive as long as this carpet. i breathe in its fragrance, eager for silence.	XCV nearing the end. if man can foretell his own demise, then what stops him from stopping it? a prideful man contains no pride in his dying days, nor does a baby born even realize it's being born. we live in past and present, and there is no way to stop the past, or what will be passing.
XCVI i can't sleep. i can't ever sleep any more. each eyelid is like a brick against my heart when closing. i've slipped back into insomnia, to be entertained by infomercials and men shouting at the top of their lungs. i hate this feeling. i want to curl in a ball and sleep or die.	XCVII i thought i found love, but it was really just something else i can't describe right now. it makes me hurt to lose it, but i can't claim it either. it just sits there, alone for me and for her to ponder. no more love, no more love, no more love.            i thought i found love. i was wrong.
XCVIII blood in veins, across the broadness of her shoulders, down the fine hairs on her neck (they tickle when i blow on them) -- all blood, all fancy cells tumbling to their predestined locations, and i, her predestiny, will sit within her and blow gently on the curve of her neck, until she shivers.	XCIX one of these days i will sleep. it'll come when i least expect it, perhaps while i'm driving or talking to my friends--boom, i'm out like a light and smashed into a light pole, my insides gone but my mind fully rested. one of these days, i'll find respite in sunsets, and i'll sleep through all of them.
C consequently, i sat amongst the deaf and blind, the over bearing feeling of being entrenched in that which was abso lute. i tried to cry, tried to sympathize, but they did nothing but hold my hand and tell me their stories. that night i closed my eyes and smelt color and felt lavender.	THE END