04 April 2016

Postcard 57

I'm trying to call out. I'm trying to cry with balance, long and straight. My voice may be jagged and brittle, but my tears fall plumb and true. This world is queer. That's right -- everyone's a fag, a dyke, a tranny, or a stud. Put on our boots, lets play at men. Put on shirts and pants and belts and hats. i'll play at me. What's that? A gun? You play at you. The world's a stage, hot lamps and grease. What boards are these? Theater of the mad, theater of war, operating theater. Theater of the absurd. The world as stage; do as you please. "Death's the final word." I hope you catch my meaning. I'm not a real straight shooter, though I try. When I shoot my arrow into the air, beyond my sight, I have been told my aim's too high. But with your gun and me with my bow, is it more important where it lands or thats its fired with care. My rhyme is broken, my rhythm's bent. The world is queer etc. Is that a truth or is it more important what I meant? What I meant was this: Life is pain (except when its not). Any truth tied to another will be false more often than not. We are mostly what we are not. Be wild and free in tyranny. Be fragile and clear in a blizzard. Be a slow ceiling fan over passion. Be a faggot at the conference table. The pebble for the saw in the trunk of a tree. Be frightened at a hot meal and a water bed. Shoot all your arrows vertically. When you try to be straight, be whirl. I'll play you. You play her, and she'll give a go at being me.

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