dawning

and you thought that eight faces were hard to lead.  imagine the reflection of thousands and the knot in the middle.  the strings pull them in one or tow or three at a time.  conducting the ebb and flow of personalities in the temporal space of being.  and as i pull them in and pull on their masks I am thrown into the world and land splattered across the surface of things.  it would be a mistake to think, it would be an error to assume, it's goggles that I wear.  as if lenses alone could change the texture of care.  it perhaps is also incorrect to call them masks, but no body wants to step into an other's body completely.  we don't want to lose some sense that self isn't important enough to be a least partially permanent.  my legs and arms and core, flesh things that anchor me in space.  but the posture matches the mask, the movements are permeated by the face shaping and no mistake making I am always falling in and out from one to the other.  This is a tangled web I tread that's made of my own devices: contradiction and contingency.

the sideways man.

the sideways man.  looks at you straight on askew.  is always catching catching it peripherally.  speaks naturally out the corner of his mouth.  tries to look around reflections to freeze the world in two dimensions.  slips like a sheet of paper with weight through-dropped down.  but when he's alone he sucks in his cheeks to the bone and wonders whether the pain will leave his neck in public sees out of both eyes exhales out of both nostrils in an attempt to be skinny as possible and when he closes his eyes the negative afterimages come out of darkness and fly away.  it's hard to get help when you're standing at ninety degrees to all appearances.  you're not in line.  running counter would be much easier. to look your foes in the face as they stab your back.  to think against.  to be anti-easy as polar opposites.  the backwards looking man next in line.

the backwards looking man.

the backwards looking man.  falling down softly into a throw back of wasted time spent dizzy.  and the updraft of disappointment buoys and on the regretful, seen.  somewhere there are signs printed on skin and laughter that doesn't end.  listening in a straight line behind the path he least resisted.  and the stench of her perfume is killing flowers invading the cilia state.  stench hangs in midair too.  the future tapped him on the shoulder but only lower body turned eyes glued on eyes, thoughts zipped in an old army jacket.  how robotically we can all step forward on a moving sidewalk standing on the right letting others walk by pulling luggage.  and his future phone is a window to the past.  and forward thinking cannot escape the event horizon. his care is spaghetti strings.  but his frozen gaze was a mask that aligned sometimes with mine even though he did not blink.  i passed on into other phases, returning only when he seemed happier.

Aletheia Gone

Aletheia Gone
my personalities splayed out like water between my fingers the tighter that i tried to hold them together down low.
shattered glass reflecting each other's faces the slipped carelessly to the ground.
only now do I try to get them back to pull them together into a whole puddle that might fill a bowl.
the laughing sad sobbing of a throat that doesn't know if it wants to go up or down and the painful less-ness of crushing
nothing between fingers.  the ground soaks me up, the air dissipates and the water makes me featureless.
out here i am shape and form unfilled working harder and harder without a goal.
what happened to my questioning self? did I slip out first? poked the holes and lead the others through?
they leave me with a thirst to drink the ocean salt and for being-in-the-world