All change, Mistaken Station.

April 13, 2011

When is it finally one last thing, and when does that last thing expire? (When things have expired, they are said in the vernacular to have “gone bad.” )

The things we burn ourselves with. Trying to grasp a match through the flame. The matchmakers, when they made matches, they attached a little stick to the sulfary head so that the fire needn’t be touched. But we forget that.

The knives we wield backwards. The way we go to grab and cut the other. We forget ourselves, and we forget which end is the handle, which is the blade. Hold the cutting edge tight in the hand, until the flesh is so slaughtered, the sweet pad of skin so bloodied that the knife finally must fall away. There is no hand where there once was one, there is no way to hold onto the sabre to fight with. The fight was won and lost the moment the hand picked up the knife and the spine of the blade made its first cut.

The delusions and the mistakes we make. Seeing a wreck before it happens. The purposeful and panicked abandonment of a train powering 1000 miles per hour toward disaster. So safe and sure that tragedy has been avoided, breathing in vats and vats of relief. Bent at the waist, hands on knees, shaking with relief and breathing until the trembling ends. Forgetting to leave the tracks. And so run down by the next locomotive.

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