3/14/15

HARLEQUIN VENTRILOQUIST

He cared not for the stars, he did not feel so wise,
there was nowhere for him to go, no matter how many
times he tried, and as a matter of fiction stitched
into our lives, we are sewn together, the teller
and the reader, you see, and that's what draws
you in, the sentences hypnotize your mind
through your eyes, for the duration of the narrative
generated by the source text, the reader begins
to identify with him, our lost protagonist suffering
from sidereal disdain, feeling immobilized on
his pillow at night, and suffocating with routine
during the day, dealing with the intensifying 
awareness that there may be no escape, that
the parameters of our biological continuum may
have been preset for execution, our genetic
message being pronounced along the unfolding
sentences of our generations, that there was
nothing you or we could do to prevent the next
generation's outspoken message, materializing as
word balloons with human outlines, going about
their daily business and routines, mulching the
detritus of our dreams into a palatable nourishment,
our ashes, their fertilizer, but the part that smarts
the most, they cannot see this and are relegated to the
pitiless, regardless of how filled with curiosity
or wonder they've become, nothing less than
being shown themselves directly with time and
experience, until they have reproduced themselves,
that our tongues do not extrude from our own mouths,
so much as they fork through our children's.  

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