VOL. XIX, NO. 11

BY STEVE VISTEEN

All of the closets are absent of life.
The dust of the future floats in the air
To be sucked up along with pain and strife
And then shoved in a corner, a dark lair,
Where the silent criers chew what is there.

They thrive within the spaces not living
Like leeches they slide, taking not giving.

I should have swept up this space twice last week,
But I couldn't learn to handle a broom,
So I tried to scream, yet I could not speak
For I had lost my voice within my room.
Like a body nestled inside a tomb.

I lay and rotted like a piece of meat.
I sensed the fire, I imagined the heat.

White heat can hit you like a wall on fire
When it's moaning for the wind like a child
A child sinking into a pit of mire
With its mouth wide open and screaming wild.
By those winds I wish my body defiled.

For I rage at the sound of the fireworks
Because explosions live where hatred lurks.

At times like this I wish I could explode,
Splattering my essence throughout the town,
Or sever every thread I ever sewed
Only to long for each fabric I wound
Like a simpleton, idiot, or clown.

Yes, it is true that we hide our faces
Clowns use their makeup; I use my spaces.