Monday, November 2, 2009

upon seeing myself outside of myself.

these hands
are so strange
like gloves that don't fit.
the air
is so thick
everything tries to swim
but it can't
it won't
--something's wrong--

i look down at these shoes
all the defects stand out:
the creases,
the scuff marks,
the frayed lace.

i want to feel grief
i want to shed tears
but i can't.
i won't
--something's wrong--

the machine churns us along
we file on in syncopation
until i find myself
before the oak-box apex.

i see myself in this moment
like i've never seen myself before
the hair, the lips, the skin, the cheeks
-especially the cheeks

puffing out, unnatural tallow,
make-up covers the decay.
a scar above the left eye
the only thing
left that's real.

this body is too heavy.
this face is too wide.
these wax eyes are unstaring.
they can't.
they won't.
--something's wrong--

these hands i hold,
creases, marks and grooves i've
never seen--
trace out
stories i've never heard

who am i?
i sort of remember someone else.
i sort of remember
something that's not there.

the cogs of the machine
grind and shift,
the grief must go on,
even without me.
a long, deliberate drole.

we're released
back into daylight.
the darkness
is locked behind slabs of
mortar and stained glass.

the haze starts to clear
i start to remember who i am
i start to believe it.

my hand traces an imaginary scar
above my left eye.
i smile for the first time

because i can.
because i will.
--because right.--

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