Mannequins on Parade
The stretch-marked cedar
Runs thinner than she used to be
White earthen oil
Burns black
As the marking from the dust-laden
Distance from one wall to the next.
Bloodshot visions in tandem
Doing the REM dance
Twitch.
Twitch.
Pause.
Gashes against mother's grain
With teeth as soft as diamonds.
Was it that empty fold
In your liner notes?
Or the way speckled tongues
Lap at any martyr's
Special Reserve.
Check please.
Maybe it's the air tasting of antiquity
Or the words you gnawed on the way in
Either way
I've grown so sick
Of the rust-colored badges
Upon your face.
(Written Thursday September 7, 2006)
