Flesh Theater by Fred Slusher
The cliff’s edge,
a salty drink;
cerulean & white foam;
home, love, & road all have four letters.
Home, love, and road all have four letters &
I tore me apart:
limbs, cells, sinew; all held together by so little,
a little blood, oil, & water.
Every scrap of paper shredded,
every thread unraveled.
Living in the empty
in-between is easy when
you’re unsure of your own tepid
existence. How can you tell someone
the truth which is that you feel nothing &
everything at once?; a whole cosmos
made corporeal, flesh theater. Applause,
applause! Exeunt all. There was a summer
I became obsessed with fragmentation,
fading into the woods of autumn where
I discovered restoration & took a job
selling bundles of violets by the
old movie house on the corner of 9th & Vine.
All the customers were wine-drunk & in love;
not necessarily with each other but with the idea
of love itself, the feeling of a mouth & a neck &
decades-old spit on celluloid.
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© 2021 Fred Slusher. All rights reserved.
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