On screen the boots are six inches from the packed dirt floor.Pan up the despondent, depleted, desecrated effigy, still. So still.Still with courage. Or still because he’s choking.It’s impossible to get a good swing going when you’re
choking.We’re most affected by death when there’s no theater to it.The spectacle makers have learned this. They cut the cloth for the screenout of dusty velvet drape curtains,and they’ve excised the cacophonous, clapping reminder thatsome of us are real.Some of us know what it feels like. Still.Our screens don’t flicker anymore.In the unflinching glow there is now art in rosebud blood vesselspainted onto bulging eyes.Bunched skin at the neck.Perspiration on the upper lip,placed as precisely as the gods place dew on white petaled flowersbefore son up. No longer pools for wishing, our screens are mirrors.Silk. Smoke. We cannot find fantasy in the hanged manif we’re always the first ones to blink.For every man who is reflected back at uson steady silk mirror screensthere is a man on this side also hanging.Men with fathers who betray them.Men with futures that never arrive.Men with souls to sell who cannot even summon demons.A task as easy as falling. Still.They cut the theater out of deathand we still sit rapt in the dark.Each pair of eyes facing out from a wombthat is harboring another effigy.He will eventually strangle himself on his own umbilical cord.On screen deaths are instruction manuals,so that for every set of bruised and blooming, hungry lungswe’ll have overlooked a man who got it right.
Reblogging to the correct place. Good job, me. >.>