Friday, May 11, 2012


In the room where one must wait for a face transplant.  Just right now the one I've got is all bunched and tied.  We draw at the same time and its all screwed up, shooting our mouths off.  The surgeon looks in horror at our mix tape sadness.  Our teeth scattered across graveland tar pools like glow sticks.  The party is over, gone, sought after yet doubted.  The lines in the dark are afterimages.  They'll graft smiles upon our faces with skin taken from unknown sources.

We told ourselves our world would be this thing that sparkled bright in contrast to the loss. And the contract we wrote up was written in motor oil and stupid drip. We said the last twilight will be now as we whispered to each other a requiem for ourselves; the loose leafed promises all flying away with the winters getting mild and the icecaps truly drifting. The mindscape becomes foreboding as the sphere spins on further. The signals are not getting out there. The leap off the cliff proves fatal. The lessor in the papers wanders away without a finite return. Dumping grounds exceed demand. We told ourselves with each proactive measure that the context was the decider: should we get too far the rope around our waists would grow taut. But who has the rope tied these days. Proud and ever present, a personality history draws up the will. Can we be what we want to be? Can this tired marble of rock keep us happy? Can we get the jest long enough to laugh? Will it run after the tune up? And our lines are crooked. Dumbed down to the level where we see a reflection in the madness, our gears slip into a hitch and we grab our sides to keep the ribs aligned. Metal teeth all bright in the darkness. Our bodies like armor, our flesh like chain mail; and we know it doesn't work.

The whole thing is ending some day, and I'm not talking about me or you.  I'm talking about the sun and the moon and the earth.  The very source will expand and burn us all silently to ash and nothing.  It was made finite and I've got a feeling my time is and will be good.  The folds of flesh lay decadent upon my skull like a thirteen layer wedding cake.

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