Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
dressed to be invisible dressed to transgress the makeup of society dressed to remake the organic body dressed to be over and done with dressed to make excuses for the wretched conditions we believe to be responsible for the terrible state of affairs we find ourselves constantly embroiled in; it's not my fault dammit. The kids whine down the street in anger blazing halos left behind, hovering in the air, unable to keep up, still shining in the rear-view mirror. The lights never turn red. Everything is always go, urban indians in modern cars. Tearing their own lungs out because it feels good. Feels right. Smoke in the room collapses into your throat, the path of least resistance, and it fills the void where a moral conscience would be. You've given up on the didactic value of theatre but wouldn't put it in those terms. Intellectuals need reasons to blow their noses. And chain smoke. Dressed to kill time dressed to deconstruct reality dressed to obviate the obvious dressed to struggle with aliens dressed to find enlightenment hovering over a black dress the day that laundry needed to be done and you weren't sure how to convey an ideological message without appearing dirty, downtrodden, or lazy. It's a killjoy logic that questions the beauty of a warm bed, that puts on a tie and plays a game called business, because simple games are the most fun to play and too many rules will follow you to payday.
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