Drinking wine while. The temperature falls and.
My skin becomes papyrus. Etched with fables.
False gods. (Snow slides down the funnels of wind and streets)
I have come to see myself. As fractals of.
Binary time. When the switch is on or off. And
a monologue of events is consumed. By opening. And closing doors.
this evening a helicopter crashed in a field between Whistle Bear Road
and Langdon Hall the scene accessible only by snowmobile two
bodies rescued from the carnage which the morning paper will reveal
to me over cereal and coffee a sacrifice to reality as I shed the twenty
thousand homages to fantasy contained in a glass of wine consumed
at the end of another week at the beginning of another year wrapped
in the continuous consumption of events strained through my need
to be deluded and diverted by the Super Bowl parade from the parade
of body bags coming from a helicopter from a fiery crash on the 401
from the believers in freedom shipped back from Afghanistan the nouveau
patriot peacekeepers in a world without peace or secure doors
I have stood in doorways. Forever. The waving man between.
Consumed by masks. Small words navigating. The eddies of
experience. Afraid to. Dance anything. My words have asked me to dance.