The old tapes unwind roll out of my mouth 
to where her face is. I try to put them back, but 
they've already seen them. They laugh laugh laugh. 
She leans in when the shots come. Takes 
my blindfold, puts it in her pocket. Bleeds  
so easily, the blood in her cheeks just for me? 
She's Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton and the rest,  
she takes pieces of broken machinery, tapes 
them to my chest. Calls out my number on the assembly 
line, wakes me to the dream when I'm not there. Plays  
with me in the mall when the lights are out, makes 
old leather taste good when the world fails. Sends 
me behind enemy lines, puts my head in the cannon 
just to find her. Makes all the enslaved words go silent, frees 
them all with her wild Wurlitzer, paints my plastic, hurls 
it into space, makes my brain smile at the human race, sings 
me Buddy Holly when my plane is going down, takes 
these four walls, buries me in nature. Wears 
the sun on her cheeks when she comes, wiggles 
the moon down when she goes. Let 'em mock,  
let 'em laugh, if I could embrace absurdity, I'd hold her.  
Here she comes now, rowing with one oar in my silver sliver 
of a swimming hole.



©2005 by Ray Sweatman