lenses on a fresh horizon
I am locked into the future. Eyes bearing down on what is to come my way, no deviations, absolved from uncertainty. Everything becomes a purer tomorrow. Everything a leap and bound to prosperity assigned to me from birth. Long after my death, my husk rises up to rekindle the flames of my sureness. The right, the ordained truths. All of it, mine for time in perpetuity.
the lenses track the bird, flying through the heavens beyond the point we know longer know it.
Click and purr and whir and whine and know something in the deep soul of the moment where I am trying to reveal a moving sentiment in still images. I created this mess.
Stop. Motion.
Gold and silver and bronze and spray painted and blacked out. Here is your champion, outfit them as you see fit.
To the victor goes the spoils.
Oh such is the truth of the matter. Such is the heavy head wearing the crown and the decisions they are forced to make for the rest of us.
Give me. Your dreams.
All they want is what I cannot give today. Come back tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.
In a cloak of night. Litigation
between a set of shadows. Order
is established apart from the fire. Motions becoming theater off of the light. Reform
me, my friend, beneath dimming stars. All
of me. Robed
The floorboard groans
Nail heads at uneven heights
Poking out to claw into the errant piece of skin that chooses to graze in its path.
Arranged in haphazard order
No symmetry
Each squawk of wood’s lament
Each one, not the same as the last
No pattern
Except the guaranteed
display of sound,
Acknowledging the discontent
at the point of impact.
