Wednesday, June 12, 2013

BURIED DOLL RECYCLED

During winter it is quite possible to surmise everything at once and include it within the unfolding compass of an angel's wingtip tracing out ellipses in the ice when you consider the sum cost of a life spent hell bent on crossing an abyss so deep and frozen below our feet the continental shift of slow moving and long buried tectonic plates drowns out our sorrowed memories in a convalescent hum that merges like a curtain of mist over death shrouded ears we stopped hearing so long ago miles beneath years of snow that the passing white painted dashes on the highway of our lives blurred into a soothing necklace we already awoke from just to find we've been hung so carefully and with such devotion in the shut closet of our dreams that remembering them clearly is the last thing we've wanted ever since we can recall extending back to the barrier between childhood and high school which had been eroded explicitly even before we lost grip of the post doll dream and swallowed whole the seedlike husks of a black pair of glossy vinyl buttons sewed shut with leather tassels directly over the binocular spots where pennies have been laid to rest for centuries under the crumbling shifting sandstone of a whirling epic history unfolding and stacking up fast amid gigantic freeze dried mountains barely upthrust from the shallow end of eternity's sloughed off skin and perfect for burying old used up porcelain fantasies in.  

Legend has been maintained in the popular domain of human beings for just as long as any of them can remember that winter loses its grip just as the seasons slip past so fast that by facing the rising sun spring melts away all the years of frozen fear as if it were one extended anapole summer day hidden in plain sight balanced in the gray between the lines on a page (the only thing in existence by definition that is not moving) so needless to state or even try to illustrate despite the blank sheet of paper having captured the fluid motion of the consistently hand typed lines in a still life of text preserved for posterity such as the ritual wearing of featureless masks which is what has transformed over time into the printing of rhyme and woven story we call the library of human knowledge and morning glory's wildest most colorful fantasies ever to be projected upon the silver canvasses of our knit together lives paper puppet stitched in a rosary of cross hatching shadows over a sunken sculpture sinking from sight into the general murk of the gateway to nighttime twilit intervals where starlight is invited to slow dance the rest of the evening away despite coming to awaken in a tomb.    

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