Back to the grind

Curl the lip, flash white the would-be fangs, that
Inescapable-blather-bound
Lengthen
Slicing pink meat of lip and gum
Only to add heat, red, wet,
To the grimace,
Disdain.

Shut the fuck up, think thought
And eyes.

Rictus, too wide to be a smile,
Draw the flies
That they might smash themselves against the grin,
Hummingbird suicide on invisible glass;
Smile sweet enough and
Eventually
They'll all fall broken, shattered
By ice shards of a cold stare
To the back of the head.

Oh, if only ...

Leave the smoldering behind,
Run fast, little ratchety thing,
All elbow bearings and knee bolts and too much grease -
Run until the rictus cracks,
A laugh or scream or sigh, just to
Break the silence
Of
Seethings and teeth.

Seek solitude to redeem
Or
Close the eyes.



(I really could have used another week of vacation. I never have much patience with trivial bullshit when I return too soon.)