Of What Of: A Movie

This house is the
body is an allegory
for what
may not be
brought to breath yet
waits
in the sidelines of consciousness
and provides energy

from the limits of the arena, and if
we enter, center space
and decide to recline for a bit before hours catch fire to the precipice and—
windows blow their exposed bones to bits though mirrors of uncertainty, then
yes

we should soon see scenery that may depict moments in history, which
we were a part of, a kind
of movie, yet without a screen and without all our post-modern technology, we
may watch
as we slaughter people
and take their
villages from right under their armpits
where
hair still crawls for children, the
type who have not yet
learned how to murder—and

as we watch
with awe and ease, we may
remember
we are in a theatre, a kind of
theatre different than the usual
type of
movie-attendees are familiar with—
and what we may find
in our palms is a stone
which allows this machinery and illusion
played before us to happen—for

as it does, the blue stone in our hands,
begins to hum
louder
louder
and no one
can hear it
but ourselves, for
we are in our own movie,
and as this occurs, we are
watching the credits roll
and we,
now
on the other side
of the screen,
sitting in our own
home
watching

tears
roll down
the face of the screen, there is
no movie,
the human-replication-thing whispers,
there are no stones to hold,
we look
at our palms,
there is nothing in them, we
look back up at the allegory,
this is a

house
this a body
of what we are of

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