Obvious Excuses

Going back in time. The dashboard on her shoulder. All lit up. With revolutions per minute. And open doors.

Teasing the atoms. Tickling the nucleus. Her skin. Like rabbits scurrying. To set the timer on the explosives. Those of us who can't build the bombs. Take pride in our ability to detonate them.

Sideways in time. I encounter myself. We have an earnest conversation. About proximity. To catalysts. And friends.

Her nightgown manipulates the empty circus. Between her legs. The cannons. The cages. The lions. All stern to the whims. Of flaccid dicks on their way to finding out their weakness.

Forward. I find myself dead. Again. That old witchcraft. In the limp of gods too frail to stand. Forward in time. Broken matchsticks. Supplicate the flint. Sparks abound, but nothing is ignited.

Sideways. So many me's. To contend. And all the monsters that have followed her into this transient utopia.

Sideways. like how the skin peels away form the flesh. When we pretend to taste it. Sideways. Like how sharp the bite is. When we search for North.

And never find it.

Going back in time. Wit a faulty compass and a handful of atoms. Finding myself. So much closer than I am now. To knowing. The ugly impostors. Who would wish to take our places.

When we find ourselves lost.