Other Lives 8/23/2023, Con/Jur/d As soon as memories are made they begin to slip into someone else's fingers, toes, legs, groin, gut heart, throat, tongue While the mediating skull pretends to be the absolute craftsman, god, architect (as the yellow/white defined by absence words like sockets strings the dead flies found between the twilight window and screen along a long (yet, shorter-than-hoped-for) silver thread, refracting pink in the crepuscular glow) Holds up a pearl necklace saying " Look, at this singular story, all these precious moments (the index distal phalanx TAPS down gently, quiets a slight buzzing) are yours, it'd be a shame to lose them" At some point maybe now, possibly before, but if after we show you the thread is gilded, even the spider who spun it moved on, the skull is seen to be an unrefined paper mache of fallen leaves and mud reliant on a particular angle between shadow and Sun, while who you were isn't stealing from who you are it helps if you see this transaction as a gifting of then (What do you need them for anyway? You can’t take them to where you’re going can you?) Apparently, you're inconvincible So, let me ask you, old friend when our hands, eyes, lips touch to whom does this memory belong?
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 8/24/2023