Wednesday 11/12/2008 01:18:00 AM

The charm box was open. Surgery on the knowledge. Touch is an organ. Taste is a privilege. Hate is the difference. We think we remember. After the future has made us its diarrhea. The path. In frantic abortions. Tomorrow finally spits out the fetus. Not alive, but still breathing.

Where is dead? Except in the want for something unattainable.

Where is life? Except in the stubbornness to overcome. Heavy bedpans. No one empties. Restless digestion. Painting sheets. As time slithers gracelessly through a maze of organs the brain calls touch. The bones call weakness.

Men are simple. They want sex. And love. Maybe some children. I could make any man happy had I the notion.

Women want a reason. Or an excuse at least. For all the holes. How the things we use to fill them turn on us. The clown. In faded blue jeans. With his makeup in his quivering fist. Laying the color onto my eyelids.

As if I could ever blink again.

The future in dirty overalls. Unhooking the buckles. I was near enough to see the monster, but too far away to blame it.

The future in sour apples. The first bite juicy enough.

I filed him under yesterday.

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