Friday, November 12, 2010

Face Cards

I never think about beginnings anymore. I keep my cards upside down, smiling at the gambler inside. You can think about me anyway that you want. As the fool who wants to start with nothing in the desert of consciousness, planting palm trees in the frigid wastes. I remember endings. How they spell me as "coffin," recognize my identity as "mausoleum." They want to take questions from the audience. What is it like being pronounced incorrectly? Do you like to scratch yourself? What flavor is you tongue? I catapult myself toward the witnesses, who must be eliminated to get away with this crime. If someone could tell me what it is, I would be grateful. This trial will be decided by the best in juries, who hang themselves in a row when approached by my evidence. I have a speech to give from the witness stand. How the last time I tried to win a game, the dealer told me I should learn to kiss the face cards. How I drowned on the river and didn't take it personally. How this is a secret I'm giving to everyone, who could paint pictures of my birth, who could force me to learn that I breathe again. How a map of Siberia will locate me on the frozen tundra, crying, shoving my nose and mouth into the snow.


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