I Sing the Body Obsolete
Hands poised over keyboards, we wait for wisdom
to trickle down, dribble out. Let’s be honest.
We are never ready for the end of a kingdom.
The book’s final pages are consumed by chronic
appendices. So we wear our waist coats.
We put ribbons and causes on our lapel,
wear bumper sticker jewelry at our throats.
The gearbox is broken, the radiator shot,
but we keep the paint waxed high gloss.
We hang the smell of new car from mirror
and dash. If we drive again, our lies die too.
I Sing the Body Obsolete, a gallery on Flickr.