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skonen_bladesHunting the elusive backbone is thirsty work for an aging matador turning tricks to get by.
Jedi knights do puzzles in the dark when they are banished to desert planets. Young men eat raw peacock in between bouts of depression so deep and wide that they become used to the pressure. Thousand-dollar suits drape the CEO flab of Karl Rove lookalikes while the illusion of power sparkles cocaine-bright in their cave-dwelling piggy eyes. They are reflected in the sunglasses of the prostitutes who are not prostitutes.
Model slash actresses make eye contact, pinning butterflies to cardboard cutouts at parties far from downtown cores in houses with great views. Amazing abdominal muscles pull young people from power point presentation to car crash in the hopes of being discovered. Even gods drift through these beaded curtains to take leave of their senses in fountains stinking of cash. It’s all water in apologetic toilets. It’s all bears with cancer at the circus. It’s all dream-logic slavery.
The pole that lets a person stand is not the same as strings that keep a person from falling. Your puppetry has become an echo of a reminder of a lost photograph of a dead friend you can barely remember. This purpose-driven economy that’s replaced your soul is a Christmas light in the mouth of a shark. I need you to eat the dog tags. I want you to dip your hands into printer ink and starting punching the walls. Leave evidence of your passage, they say. Do not try to sneak through this life.
I’ve won lotteries ten years in the making. Entire ear-wax sculptures of soldier-salute deafness have rolled around in you to get dirty. Strength has come to both of us in drum solo fits and crocodile-roll grinding like cars taking a long time to start on Alberta winter mornings. We are kite-string forever trying.
Whether you’re flying or crawling, the hunt will continue. And you will never be alone in that.
tags
Jedi knights do puzzles in the dark when they are banished to desert planets. Young men eat raw peacock in between bouts of depression so deep and wide that they become used to the pressure. Thousand-dollar suits drape the CEO flab of Karl Rove lookalikes while the illusion of power sparkles cocaine-bright in their cave-dwelling piggy eyes. They are reflected in the sunglasses of the prostitutes who are not prostitutes.
Model slash actresses make eye contact, pinning butterflies to cardboard cutouts at parties far from downtown cores in houses with great views. Amazing abdominal muscles pull young people from power point presentation to car crash in the hopes of being discovered. Even gods drift through these beaded curtains to take leave of their senses in fountains stinking of cash. It’s all water in apologetic toilets. It’s all bears with cancer at the circus. It’s all dream-logic slavery.
The pole that lets a person stand is not the same as strings that keep a person from falling. Your puppetry has become an echo of a reminder of a lost photograph of a dead friend you can barely remember. This purpose-driven economy that’s replaced your soul is a Christmas light in the mouth of a shark. I need you to eat the dog tags. I want you to dip your hands into printer ink and starting punching the walls. Leave evidence of your passage, they say. Do not try to sneak through this life.
I’ve won lotteries ten years in the making. Entire ear-wax sculptures of soldier-salute deafness have rolled around in you to get dirty. Strength has come to both of us in drum solo fits and crocodile-roll grinding like cars taking a long time to start on Alberta winter mornings. We are kite-string forever trying.
Whether you’re flying or crawling, the hunt will continue. And you will never be alone in that.
tags