So we’re
taking off our masks, our we, and putting on
some
make-up, simply because it’s softer?
Alright,
that cold
calf in the middle of the room doesn’t deem
itself any
less visible simply because it’s hue is mauve.
Limitless
conventions of barking admissions all stem
solely from
the self, and yet are stinging because they
are
directed at another self, or, an other.
Still
theater,
awakened
from the intermission by gang style gongs.
Sometimes a
silence,
inventing new ideas to better our-
selves in
the same way we try on clothes, desperate for
a new look,
or one that better accompanies ourselves
when we’re
deep in the weeds of the life we now lead.
Sources of warriors,
tamed by tremendous kisses in the
off hours,
a love born of projection of the world we all
want, will
want to want, will will to want and
want, not.
