Composing the Past

We jerk our offs. We stumble our spits. With cactus lips. With rubber arms. Poseable nightmares in stranger's beds. A Halloween of sex. Lovers in all manner of disguises. Knocking on every door. Following a soft trail or porch lights in search of a demon I once met.

Some perfect Hannibal to coax my lambs out of silence. Or the rubber face of a rogue clown to hide this beast of a grin. As though we were never ourselves. Born only at the moment we realize this. A lazy tornado of stockinged legs shooting out from her torso like far away lightning bolts. Igniting a fire too far away to put out. Charming a flame too distant to burn us.

Flirting with the riddle in the words that are frugal to my insanity. Adjusting the volume of their microphone to accommodate the mistakes I've made. Replicating the colors of knowing. One word at a time.

As if it mattered what I did.