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[ .the.man.of.the.hours. ]

gun to the ballet floor
he's handed one down
in his stitch-up riot suit
against the shine and lack-luster
used to wake us
from our burning time
were we walk in fevered segments
under blankets
sweaty and swollen
with our prone figures

his eyes are groping out
hands on every ugly surface now
reaching each curve
each contour speaking out
just to him
smoothing out deftly
freshly showered surfaces
all supple for the taking

roaming over the room
he's your david
all in stereo
sculpted cleanly on the sides
rough lines gone
but still massing
at your rebel table
holding down the watchworks
on our plates and pander

cannot anymore place it
in its eloquence
our writhing words
all hollowed out now
where he knows
our flaccid intent
is on display
just like he knows you
all gory insides-out

but he's watching
smoking from his wall
our every beaten step
slipping as our heads drop
and the lies keep longer
steaming from our mouths
that touch with aching breath

holding on
until they cut me down
in all my gory glory
soaked through
bindings still clear
and cutting
at my sides & shoulders
are the words you've used
just to tie me up here
the ones he's written down for record
jotting in his little books & scraps
under brim where his eyes only know

it works every hour
my head never stops
because it knows
every footprint behind me
is his in turn and in time

figured I'd go out loud
but its all so quiet
still empty of any peace
only his breathing
is tracing my awareness
as it echoes off of edges
and make new sounds
that are so familiar

those shapely sounds
drowning me heavily
under thick memories
that thought could be traded
for one more shining day

where hands keep everything
right in its aching place
away from the man
that watches my hours
from inside skin, lip and lid

� Bryan McLean March 09 2006

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