Saturday 3/06/2010 12:21:00 AM

Matadors on the edge of the red. Tease the horns of the beast. The red is the paradox. The thorns are the truth. The blood is evidence. That the victim is not who we think it is.

I don't wait for the snow to melt. I shovel it away. Assuming. Always assuming. The sun will not rise again.

I let them stick the bull. Provoking it. Because I want it to win. I see the red. The billows of bright satin as they entice the horns. A lazy suicide. A series of skin. A time machine without a pilot.

I give them the future. In little cuts and picked scabs. The blood lets us know. We're not too lost.

Dolls in their plastic shoes. Their fabricated dresses. Stages. Momentum. That jolt of skin. As it ponders the clock.

Every hour. Every minute. Accountable to the end.

This time machine. Steadfast in its decisions. Those dirty clothes still wearing her.

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