Chasing the Piston

Move the background. Not the subject. Fool the eyes. Life's stale distillery. They tell the truth with so many lies.

Something beside me goes forward. Forcing me backward, though I'm not moving. The awkward seduction of isolation creates change where there is none.

Reading the names off. The roll call of memory. Sanctifying what is gone.

These temporary kingdoms leave us nothing but empty castles. Broken crowns. Diving down into the moat. In search of crocodiles.

The words were in my throat so long I got used to it. Learned to breathe around them. Saturday speaks, but Sunday is deaf. The lemon in your diet Pepsi, but the straw tells you the taste.

At the stop sign the clutch winces. The engine gulps. Another detour. The closer I get to, the longer the drive.

There is no there. Only the redundant journey of finding I am not.

Chasing the pistons. As they chase themselves.