Chapter Three: doublechque.

oh, how i have fallen.

my hands left undried,
believing with my eyes closed.
spark unshone and color washed,
i place her in a florid basket.
i misplace her in my sleep.

i put her down and the dream changes:
removing the white cotton gloves,
the bell player's gloves,
to leave fingerprints all over my
shapeshifting, to examine the worn,
the holes, the dusty threads,
but i lose those too.

now, if i do find you, i cannot even pick you up.
i could take you to a city, and hole up with you,
but here i am, writing candidly, a confession.
my master will hear me. he will hold me,
fiercely by the neck, he will grip me,
and to his rusty dogs, dodging nothing.

my master, he warns me:

the muscle, the shell, the peeling skin, that.
that fragrance i caught underneath all fear.
my porcelain hands unscrubbed, sickening
stubborn diversion, cricketskinned love affair,
i tell you now and you hear me not.

one day soon, your cosmic begging will find an answer.
your spirit will remain awake, and your eyes will
find a journey in a collective conscious, and your body will
wash ashore with the billions of others, all joined,
clasped dead hands along miles of ocean beach,
a meal for the future and you will be thankful.

when debating over the
dual legality and illegality
of terrorizing your enemy,
please keep in mind
electric surefire bullets.
5 silver, count to 3.
when you consider
what it's like to
feel your batteries drain,
it's clear a conscious
being shouldn't be run
on rechargeable batteries,
a form of torture.

a day of recovery:

falling asleep always feels better than waking up, especially when your cat leaves you for another (cat), especially when you wake up on the couch.
a morning run should feel better than being late.
a resignation to underpreparation.
a position of comfort on repeat.
a tilted ladder onto a steep damp roof
onto a slippery metal roof
through a screen
through the window:
a fight for warmth and charcoal peace.
i pay you, thanks for nothing.
and a solitary unimportance.