We see the thing in
but we feel it more
in black and white.

The wet mammoth shrinks away,
like a pink scrub sponge
contorting into itself;
We lay flat, drying
in this grease pan.

As we go,
our bodies
get obscured—
burnt, distorted,
scratched, bitten;
Screwed holes out from.
Stapled; Marginalized;
Sawed off and photographed.

In the end, it is only our details
which remain; Cold, dirty, and
begging eyes to look closer, still.

The LIFE, in US.
Our fingernails;
Our follicles;
Our pigments;
The hairs bristling inside our noses.
Our disease;
Our cancer;
Even our death;
The LIFE, in US;
Clear as a good clean pap smear
as viewed beneath microscope;
While the lab techs jack off
on lunch breaks,
stealing peaks at our specimens
between bites of bologna and american.

We see the thing in
but we feel it more
in black and white.
But not exactly black and white.
There is, in this reality, only our blackness
and that has its own hallowed absence.
If there is white— it is because
someone or something
has switched a light on,

LIFE, in there.
LIFE, in US.
We are still
so good
with so much
until we are

Then, we are just
within our own details;
A dirty realism of a life spent.

Open your palms.
Shut your eyes.
Trace the scars.
Pinch yourself.
Feel the pain.
Open your eyes
and still feel the pain.
Look at your hands.
Touch yourself.
You are alive.
Go outside.
Shave your head.
Kill a canary.
Step on a rattlesnake
and tell the thing
to lie down and shut up.
The LIFE in US;
Sometimes, it is necessary
to walk about the house
with the blinds pulled open
while the music plays
and the Mormons knock.

written on 10/13/2011 by: Matt Kane