Friday 8/11/2006 12:52:00 AM

I couldn't tell you why it is this way. Only how it is. The details you might lose to your self-importance. The doubled sword with just one blade. Attempting to open up lives already undone.

The coffin. All dressed up with paper dolls. So well trimmed. Paper cuts at every taste. My tongue an accordion. So many openings in what was said.

I try to be a person, but I only end up myself. Forlorn dagger with blade not sharp enough. Making creases in the direction of our mistake. As discrecion instructs the lost to find what was never there.

Tugging hard on the last remnants of this dilemma. Needing something to want. I'm almost there.

Every bottle emptied promising a new metaphor for the same old questions. Chilled and harsh the words blur into focus.

We lose each other in these fits of self-awareness. Children bending over to grab their stones from the numbered squares. Playing hopscotch with the demons. Stale martyrs of the lonely selling their shoe polish to naked feet.

It's easy when all those feet want is a pair of shoes. Something to separate them from the ground below.

Some way to know all those miles we walked won't soon forget.

Some lies will buy us. Others must be purchased. Sitting there. Thinking everything about yourself has already been sold.

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