What if I closed my eyes on this life. But instead of stopping my breathing, I started to live.

Something inside me opens up to the fog and the mist of the moon and the night.

The hidden parts of the body become my skin

Pain becomes my pleasure and I lose the meaning of words because words have no meaning

We breathe what we are. I breathe my neighbor who breathes who they hate

Ideas grown on branches ripen and rot

Life of the smallest factors eat away at something that could never be

The city finally realizes what it was made for and falls to the ground

Everyone is buried and dies.

Dancers leap across the rubble, commenting at the beauty of the artful stage that is the night sky

Stars wink at bugs who copy their images

And I'm five years ago....and three thousand miles away

the dark lands that nobody can ever speak of because lips are glued to the ground that they plan to walk on, blessed by the posibility of tomorrow and the setting sun. Artist paint their eyes colors they can't see in hopes that something real will be grown from ink of pens that run across paper like children in the summer who know nothing of pain over grass that grows like graves on a plot of land belonging to a god who whispers to his people but nobody can listen because their ears are filled with rivers of clouds where they fly. Birds scream and devour the sun because they can, and the sun cries of stars calling to brothers that are too far away for anybody to see. But we try because we have eyes in our faces and faces of wax and plastic manufacture on lines of paper crumpled dead by animals that run into arms of those who feed them but are only ghosts. I sit around a fire because I am too hot to be left in the cold. The cold is filled with ice that cuts and kills, so I am content to watch the laws of the universe play themselves out on the stage before me. One actor decides to better his character and spins a different way. Money flies, and people clap for a mistake that is considered genious, and the mastermind is left to be in the cold. A guitarist plays a soft melody for his mute ears only. Tasteless notes erupt from a mouth of a starving man, making him fat. A child beaten to a shadow crawls from the ashes hoping to meet a phoenix. Chains wrap around his ankles laughing at feeble attempts to say hello to something that doesn't understand what a greeting is. A door cries out because it refuses to budge, guarded by a creature that sings razors from the air that are never used to cut. A whisp convulses asking to do something as it's torn asunder through indesisiveness. And the typewriter runs out of ink to tell the author that his story is a painting and the sleep is a canvas. Nobody listens, and all they can do is watch with veiled eyes staring into a blinding light that melts the fabric that a movie is cast upon without any regard what will be shown.

Take a fist to all that is breakable.

Words are emotions, and emotions are lies. Emotions are strings

Strings have no feeling and are the spider's web

The spider runs from the rain

and the puppet master tosses down the cross to a baby who picks it up and bears it across its back withthe skill of a martyr.

There are no comments to this entry.