9 May 2005

On the Rail, the Cardboard Houses Swagger

And I feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen
Sit and listen

Slippered angels go ghastly pale on the hallway walking paths, dragging gurneys beneath them in a solitary stride through flourescent tunneled lights. There may be a hand to hold them, a god to greet them in the morgue. But it would seem that once they made for the door they flared their horns and rocked off their sashes of grace for brimstone canes and crooked legs. I know i would rather walk hell before i see heaven, crack skulls and savor pain just to know the heavy weight of bliss. The gated crossroads of white-shoed, scrub-washed people seems bustled to breaking, all distended and immune to the plague of living running through the courses. White hoods, white paper feet, white walls, white hair. A shock of black running through the eyes of each one, the ears pricking on the sunken corners of their smiles hiding wolf teeth wrenching at the covers, coveting for the pastey usher that should wheel them out the rooms in the dark.
Honey gold lacquer fills up this pool, tinny in its dripping sound, lapping at the toes and running cool to the knee, bending, mending. Clarity comes in the white noise reflection, a pallor of yellow slapped across the wilting limbs. It drifts across vision in a throbbing plaque reading DON'T PANIC JUST YET, after all, ends are very much the beginnings as well. Tricks of the mind, a speed which none of us have traveled before is a speed at which we cannot perceive ageing. The moment we achieve light, the slender pace of infinite tandem trotting, we are as old as the universe, as young as the most primordial idea still being conceived, yet to be dreamed, yet to be dreamed of being dreamed.
Placement is everything, must be put in the exact spot through which it all travels, but that means moving from where everything else that does not exist travels. Catch-22, 23, 24.
Slipper shuffles make that sneaker squeak-scuff sound like whispers on a humming chimney, a bit like languid tidings of the leaving and gone, tossing care off to the homeward breezes and clasping onto the switches merely to say "sleep sweet". "Sleep sweet."

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