Two parts.


Cadence

October 28, 2011

.

Stony, oily, hedging, mind bending.

I wished more people used me like you do.

.

I could face nonchalance

with armed, guarded hands,

faced forward swords and

blunt, backfiring guns.

.

I could wear gloves like nails to skin,

and hide my lined face from the sun,

I could grow puffy and tired,

un-alive and piss-ed-ly wired.

I could make a pretty photograph,

if you took the time, to carve and bisect.

.

(Though I'm not sure I look better, in two.)

.

The inflections in the tone of your voice,

are like molasses, racing down the bottom of sandpaper tracks,

and I mistake myself for air again;

I forgot I was here.

Is this the part I speak?

Is this the part I back away,

and practise those mindful sprinting skills?

.

Stonily, oily, well-practised, exacted.

I don't try very hard,

but maybe you do, and maybe they do, too.

I don't.

Am I tired of supposing so?

I suppose.

But you don't make

the fences look any shorter, either.

.

(Still bars, like molten lava, that never cools.)

.

Still a statue, that's somehow found it's got muscles

and limbs; and tendons to pull those bones with,

and ligaments, to hold that fragile figure upwards,

and flesh, and blood, a heart, in only the most physical way.

Do you know that you know me,

in only the most theoretical way?


Lateral

Those mind doctors, in only the most literal existence,

would tell me I have issues,

and list them out, with exacted proficiency,

like pre-programmed robots; old computers.

Prescribe to me simple solutions,

ruses and mental cures, for these mental sicknesses.

But this sickness is the human condition.

.

I won't whisper my little secrets anymore.

My voice is shaky, and my thoughts are raw.