Dousing the Cement

Some things happen in cycles. But occasionally it's just the difference between saying I'm bleeding or I'm not. Pissing in hot buckets. Exploring the stench. Until someone asks me, quite arbitrarily, where all my eyelashes have gone. And the only answer I have is away. Sober butterflies of the cocoons you remember.

Cupping his head to nullify the bloat. His lies sprinting through their asthma to catch up with us.

And grabbing the cigarette from between my lips he took his first breath of my life. Urgent fingers of cancer flowing through the locks in his chest. All the keys to living in admitting we were already dead.

The shape of his lips. An empty playground. A squeaking swing. Not understanding the silence. Convinced he'd gone deaf when it was his sight that had betrayed him.

There are lies and their are perceptions. The only difference being whom you ask. There are cycles. Canyons and crucifixes in flesh. To preach and then to die for our sins. Like playing poker with yourself. Never knowing which one of you will win. The scope of memory the only marker. The only jury in a trial where I'm always both.

Guilty.

and Innocent.

Of every moment.