presized holes to fit your deconstruction
sliding like children's blocks into correctly shaped
voids.
their masks are slipping, murky teeth behind those smiles
but they are mindless of it, because they have you
right where they want you
and they want you to see.
we pray for escape plans, a hopeful way to turn our tails and run
but this is a glass box above our heads
the blinding glare of the sun a merciless hammer
each blow trapping the lid down tight.
and there is no where to go, because we are unsound
and unfit in our own bodies.
there is not a way to feel comfortable again.
we barely know ourselves, we scarely remember
who we thought ourselves to be.
i can't write anymore, save for letters
save for signing my name on checks for bills.
my fingers, once trusted and nimble
are now the claws on the end of monstrous limbs.
my hands crash on the keystrokes
cudgels breaking teeth in a dumb face without satisfaction.
they sold us with cheap colors, and clever photography.
living now in the sights of countless postcards, the truth is ready.
on every bus stop and overpass
on the grafitti crawling through industry
on the wedding veils
hooked on razor wire
lining the train lots and broken amphitheaters
the words are spelled out with unrivaled clarity:
you are not going to make it. you were never going to make it.
we have leapt to stupid, foolish deaths
and there is no longer surprise to soften the blow.
our hearts beat dumbly within heavy chests
our last gasps soft and whisper still
all gone unnoticed.
and the old lies stay afloat
buoyed once more and ready
rising each grisly crest onto an endless tide of youth.
-blh/2008
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