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.
Am I tired of supposing so?
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?
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.