scalpel

injustice scalpel



she picks up the new york times with her broken fingers and her broken pen leaks ink from her broken breast pocket with her broken heart.
she was born with the broken heart, but God made a hinge for her. so it could open and close. it just takes a while to open and it takes a while to close and sometimes it sticks.

sometimes her soles stick to the ground and it results in falling over or jumping up into the sun or just rubbing up against concrete and making holes in her shoes.
usually an ankle goes loose.
heavily weighted on the right side.

a tv car crash burns on electric tele phone wires over head

we wonder why when she enters the train the train stops
it is not working or working
it is not
anything
it disappears

xela solaris is left standing on the empty platform the world she knew underneath her on the floor like some scrap piece of paper with a doodle on it. the doodle you couldn't understand was the entrance to an ex-dimension. well good you through it in the trash. you missed. we all bled.

the sun riseson Xela's left shoulder
the sun rises on her right shoulder.
she looks over her shoulder. still no train. and the rest of the world is alone again. i mean they became separate.

she walks down the tracks. it's a bridge now over destroyed industrial garbage a gentrification haven in the waiting.

there are a few back pockets when this happens. when electricity combines with water and it stops the weather (and all other humans disappear but the animals who live outside of time linger to support). and as she looks at her wrist watch, the reflection of the round glass gathers sunlight just enough to get the train moving again. the passengers return. XelaSolaris out on the platform still and the train leaves right on schedule.

in the flicker of a blink of an eye.
all this change.
she yet, so used to flying, drops a single tear. Because she was almost human enough this time.

her boots are made of purple steel. rings of saturn, her laces. he feet are heavy in snow and light in air. cutting, herslef and others if she is not careful.
her tongue made by an ancient Piscean woman of the desert. hard soiled and cutting with hard roots, holding onto the past. so her tongue spins fire that twines the weight of the past and releases it with burning fury.

she turns and looks over her shoulder. purple auric glow on the horizon. a whole series of past actions burned to the ground and a whole series of future actions spring up with new buds of the never-before seen on television rumors.

when she sleeps tonight she will make a prayer.
she will ask her angels to destroy any false wisdom from her life.
she will beg for forgiveness for her tongue the one that keeps her mouth bleeding.
she will require the angels protection as she meanders onward. without a concrete notion of what is ahead.

there may be nothing.

she closes her eyes to the brilliant winter sun. and a single lavendar tear drops to the center of her chest inbetween her palm sized breasts and falls all the way down to her womb and enters in through the bell button. a secret passageway to her rootedness to the cosmic order she came into this world under, and a silent prayer is made to her as a mother. her as Nasrah's mother.

and she remembers the sorrow of Mary. and drops her head down under the blue sky to celebrate that single tear which resembles awareness of our singular insignificance, and embracing the whole of union, as a united entity... she validates her existence with two hands to the sun in the form of a triangle.

one foot ready to step forwards away from the space cowboys of the world.and into a future of pale unicorn blood. or opalescent rainbow breath.

she wishes her feet didnt cut into the past as they moved forward through time. she tries to shuffle around to reduce the damage, but she can hear her latest victim in a treehouse. his throat slit and full of the barfed blankness of her being. the slight of hand ribbons. an overgrown story. the babysitter done it.