I Have Come to Sleep. Not to Be Alive.

dirty-old-ballet-shoes

*Narrating the tremendous fortitude of lucidity
Into something simpler-
A kiss.
Tender as seared flesh.
And orgasms sequenced
Like appointments at an abortion clinic.
“Dead children tell no stories,
Write no poems”
But how do we advocate for the living truth?
I said,
“Memories are but an obligation
To forgo the images in our dreams.”
Sleeping to die. Blinking to pretend
The day-dream is real.
And under the tender linen
Of an evening sun,
I trekked past a dance studio
Through windows dirtied
From fingerprints and pigeon excrement
I watched a ballerina discover the intention
Of perfect balance. Each pivot on her pointe shoe
Was documented along a wall of mirrors,
Trapped inside the glory of optic nerves.
“Dead children tell no stories,
Write no poems.”
I contemplated movement.
Decreed it a birthing of shadows
Miming innocence and guilt.
I blinked. She was a day-dream.
When I freed my eyes
I was down the street
Waiting for traffic to falter-
So I could cross the street and purchase coffee.
And she is forever dancing for me;
Through dirty windows and pupils.
What torture repeated merriment
Is for the contributor,
When it succumbs to the demands
Of a comparing audience.
We want purity
Again, and again, and again…
Never realizing
Perfection flourishes today.
Memories are dead,
To die is to be human-
To be alive is to be perfect.

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