shove the problem in
a problem box
we're artistic
you and eye
it's why you're boxes
all look like they've
been drowning in paper
machete and glitter
green and black and bitter
brushing bruises on like
tomorrow you can take
them off.
crawling on pipe cleaners
walking high on dice
skinny legged little girl
break dancing to the form
of the word, like pistol
shooting step for step
revolver clicking ballerina
in her pretty little
box
turning toward her better half
the photogenic side
in circles ever going
on the lies that if she
turns the other cheek
she'll get better
except two-faced face-offs
are only profile apparent
and you never speak
to yourself head on
so instead you dance
without thinking
head locked in a box
hands working hard to
open the right ones
for closing
never knowing
every box props open
plain and unfashioned
unfastened and waiting
jaws open for swallowing
[the memory pills
that go boom in your liver
instead of your heart]
neglected while you
paint the illusion of
pain inside
from with-out
to steer away
from it with-in
never knowing
all her eggs are
hatching in one box
always working
never thinking
only dancing
always working
with your hands
never knowing
you've been stitching
closed the wrong lids
with your own eye lashes
shoving pills down
your own throat
wondering why your walls
are blowing up like alice
on shrooms
and then tumbling down
as badly painted cards
when you begin revolving
around yourself, dancing
as if you know the other side
will be sunrise
wondering with your blind
eyes and never mind
from inside your mind's
colored sweet box
in a room of boxes
all on tables with chairs
pulled like files
why the lights don't work
when you're pin-balling
the routine chair to musical
chair
turn table touch and
landing somehow
in the same shoes
the same chair
at the same table
with the same box
to the same night
all latched to you
you're expressive
and you create
as if you're working
with yourself and feeling
better
but you're talking to
yourself-creations
working on yourself
only feeling better
when the other senses
died all wrapped up
in paint and pretty
i see you now
mugshot double taken
stripped sideways and jerking
caught on your own strings
still trying to turn away
a ballerina in a box
...she killed the dance
and saved the lies
a tangled mess
closed always
in her
self
http://www.darkpoetry.com/node/work/101240
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