Scarecrows and Marionettes

Flushing, New York — Autumn 1998

Scarecrows and marionettes. Skeletons that rattle down awkward boulevard. Camera eye capturing loose and disturbed mania. You are out of fluid, your mouth is dry and the cigarette is shooting sparks down Main Street. You are out of range, feet struggling to fall in step. Scarecrows and marionettes — the crucifixion bloody. Czechoslovak dream married to congealing clouds.

There is absolutely nothing you can say or do that will ever put together this haphazard puzzle that is scattered across your table. Something sublime yet never sweet. Just an ordinary heart which sometimes basks in foolish drivel and in clouds which resemble plastic tubes floating effortlessly above black holes; sewer pipes clogged with dirty memories and shit stained melancholy remembrances.

There is no glass cleaner here to make me see things any clearer. What it is, a silent memory, a distant scream in the labyrinth of time, a fortune to be mined with a stick and a mound of mud. Ants have more fun at this than we do, yet our ant farms are truly equal. Never mind the accolades, just point me to the stars and set the controls for the center of your heart. It’s so nice and warm in there. A sweet oil in which to lose oneself and swim towards the banks of an unbelievable dream.

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