Wednesday 8/09/2006 11:35:00 PM

The puppet in the corner. It had no hair. And too many fingers thumping through the darkness. Mad rabbit huffing the aerosol adrenalin can. In scratches. Digging each thought deeper into the skin. Raking the moment across it until the flesh is parted. What's underneath gushing to the surface in an innocuous mushroom cloud.

No rage left to balance. No grief to be the fulcrum. No more levers. Only switches now. On. Off. And that middle place where the spark stutters against itself. Waiting for our approval. Permission to live again.

Pull the hair. Shed that dress. In stark light so unkind I am startled by my own reflection. Without the nylon that turns pale legs dark. Without the black that makes dwarf eyelashes long.

Nothing but the switch.

On or Off.

Asking which I am.

Letting down the hem on this life. Unafraid of being small.

Anonymous said...

It's not just that you're prolific S (you seem to be able to write daily; and I just can't keep up!).

It's that you are so consistently good! I mean good as in satisfying and stirring and thoughtfully contemplative. Adding hefty nuance to all things familiar.


softermaniac said...

it's more a compulsion than a talent really. i often think to myself i don't want to write today and am irresistably compelled to do it nonetheless.

thanx for coming back. reading and letting me know how you feel about it.

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