There are children in Swan,
wearing burgundy-blood robes like monks,
learning adult forms of interaction and sacrifice
through the shadow play of rhythm games. Watching,
and acting out. Tell them things you wish were true.
No. Don’t over think it. Mimicry isn’t intellectual,
it’s animal. It’s plant; it’s sapling growing into dying tree.
Now think about the combo word “into”; as if the structure
is already there and you just push up inside it, becoming it.
Push its lines and dashes, filling a you-space, a pattern at once
new and forgotten. The membrane stretches as you forget again
the shape of things that were and will be. Wishes aren’t true.
In this city of white feathers and intestinal sewers we grow into
all our malformed and beautiful, or geometric and grotesque
prototype to human forms. Center-pinned halves, symmetrical
yet often torn at counterproductive purposes.
We are the children in Swan,
wearing the hand-me-downs and eating the breadcrumbs
casted off by agents provocateurs, those bigger than life shapes
projected from mythic conquering ghosts of a flexible history
onto cavelike eyeballs; our soul windows are also cineplexes
with the power to influence, confuse, and delight.
K. Shawn Edgar | Smaller on the Inside | Vox Hall | Stroller