Friday, June 09, 2006

GARMENBOZIA:I love the ones I hurt. They can tell from outburst and invitation. They never talk about gag orders. the muzzle-tight mandibles. The manhole-cover-coins. Just below the fracture the threshold bridges caverns. Roads beneath body casts, permanently braced . Barb-wire mesh constellations across late-night horizons. Peeled from the tape. Forgiven for the lash. Burden inverted into a quality worthy of abandonment. Imitating sutures, wrinkles only make it to grin, resembling a baited cheshire. Screams to be compared to the lung-rubbings of others rather than being rewarded in time for their own failure. The glue tangles strands into fiber-steeples over a once cursed gash. Heads were unloaded to deny the ammunition. Zombies inherit the dirt from genuine cadavers. The crippled-with-life believe they are the same. They turn in horror from anything other than consensual laceration, taking pride in phony-tough bloodlust. My angel waits to see if I am of a similar strain of non-existence or a non-existent strain. Build the appreciation through lines of questioning. Sleep in holes. Awake under sky without obstruction. Shut off the carefully rung-out colors so they may return to proper static. Open windows with your throat. Let the shards respond in kind. On a long enough time line, we’ll all give rope. Eventually the glass will rise and we'll wake up to the shallows, seeing depth for all its avoidance.


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