Moving Through Time

There’s electricity in the way we touch. Not the kind they write about in poems, y’know, that awful romantic shit involving passion and desire and love. No, the electricity we share is ugly and brutal. It fries small children who wander onto train tracks in search of adventure. It electrocutes racoons and drunkards that climb power masts in an attempt to be closer to God leaving their gnarly remains to rot twenty feet up in the summer air. It burns the pages of books written by all those writers who write only in need of their dreary thirst for fame. No, the fame I require is not in the masses, but in wanting you to know that the rage in my heart is for real. That these words I piss out- they are not intended to impress- they are meant as a substitute for my lips. They are designed…