Saturday, May 5, 2012

Old Flames XVII: A Merciless Construct

I'm sure you could call it society after enough poker games. Grill up the sun and serve it to the earth. Beg the rainwater to be a dinner guest. Feed it famine and call it politics. Never churn up old memories of swimming at the lake, so you can sleep at night. Forget all that once was laughter. Dazzle the night sky with fireworks built from glistening beads of sweat from a prairie rainstorm. Kick up your heels against the fence. Tilt the chair back. Dip your head. Appreciate your underwear wardrobe. And watch the great sky above you shake.

This is when you'll whistle, and it'll be heard around the world. You'll write letters to beckon it back. You'll become pen pals with the wind. You'll keep a diary of dirt. Rusted in the murky swamps of mankind will be the thoughts you left out to dry in Hell. Oh, gods, what foolish mortals us liars be.

Radiate, radiate, radiate! I witnessed the beauty. I caught sight of the slip. It was just a utopian wink, a currency in the better lands. But all we have are our books. Thank goodness for pillows. I was nearly executed as a dreamer. But they couldn't convict me for sleeping.

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