the viewing...

they whisper to the fat undertaker
who laughs and pulls the drapery…
so, this is it.
a glimpse,
a blistered absence refracted in a bald eye…
no immortality for this granite opacity.

bloated, they circle interpretation
their pudgy fingers wrapped around cigarettes,
pudgy pig joints bulging through pallid, pure flesh…
they live under deadwood, i think.

my rigidity does not awe this multitude.
they look for a crack;
but the flaw is cemented in my eyes
and they cannot get beyond my ponderous thighs…

“speak,” they demand.
they hold bloody stones,
questions with sharp edges…
my mouth blows open
and sprays this tiny room with wet words
i held beneath my tongue too long.

they scurry
fat spiders to safe corners
muttering about integrity…
“i am my own creator,” i scream after them.
“i have no strength left for marble.”

but they have moved to another room
where perfection is solid and silent…

viewing...soliloquies
ja allen