Biographies

Dreamed in a fever
high-trodden what with all the
sentiment and symbolism of the
nobility of acceptance,
we're working,
of them
callously saving a life
in the most unthinking way
beyond all the mortal suffering
you were a representation of yourself (
schwarzweiss
)
and I invited you into my home
across worlds,
and this is what you make of it,
but who am I? awake, even
there's a lot of bleeding
and it's much easier to build up
this sense of responsibility
on the side of the road
because five years from now,
living underground
with the taglines and metaphors
under an iron sky,
or teflon,
or anything opaque and limiting,
host,
Sassanid ablutions and insects,
reminders that we share this world
and I am scenery
when I forget
and you
and the revelation,
dreadful curtains and such
and the sun as a creation myth
lost to the ages, not even
symbolic, just,
tradition,
written down,
overanalyzed,
it's theory,
and it is out of the park,
but optical illusion, because
as the frame-by-frame clearly demonstrates
we never met.

We round the corner,
a stray cat stares me down
deep as if
he knows something,
and I think,
"Well,
we all do,
don't we?"
and we'd be better off at home,
but have convinced ourselves we need to earn it.
The failure of temporal significance
overwhelmed us suddenly
with great military precision,
German engineering,
the usefulness of the have-nots
with their ambling mobility and not much else,
cats and their sense of entitlement we've long since rejected,
wine from the bottle,
tonight whiskey by,
the buildings of glass and sure steel but,
it's not noticeable.
Not like our weaknesses or maybe that's just me,
you know how I get,
challenged.
We stop at the red lights, on principle.
It's cultural.
Choosing the hours,
lest we fall prey to some underground parade,
and where does it all go?
The stories,
and stories,
all glass,
your turn.