The old tapes unwind roll out of my mouth�
to where her face is. I try to put them back, but�
they've already seen them. They laugh laugh laugh.�
She leans in when the shots come. Takes�
my blindfold, puts it in her pocket. Bleeds �
so easily, the blood in her cheeks just for me?�
She's Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton and the rest, �
she takes pieces of broken machinery, tapes�
them to my chest. Calls out my number on the assembly�
line, wakes me to the dream when I'm not there. Plays �
with me in the mall when the lights are out, makes�
old leather taste good when the world fails. Sends�
me behind enemy lines, puts my head in the cannon�
just to find her. Makes all the enslaved words go silent, frees�
them all with her wild Wurlitzer, paints my plastic, hurls�
it into space, makes my brain smile at the human race, sings�
me Buddy Holly when my plane is going down, takes�
these four walls, buries me in nature. Wears�
the sun on her cheeks when she comes, wiggles�
the moon down when she goes. Let 'em mock, �
let 'em laugh, if I could embrace absurdity, I'd hold her. �
Here she comes now, rowing with one oar in my silver sliver�
of a swimming hole.



�2005 by Ray Sweatman