Mnemonicals (07.10.12)
I wear memories. I wear some so as to wear them down, not out mind you, just, down. Tattered fabric. A frayed fabric. High thread count fabric, And sheer too. Web weaving string pullers. WarDrobe. Triggers on high caliber riflings thru the chest to the stomach. It’s compelling to give them more credit than they are due. Or is that power? Or is that energy? One needs to focus. Perhaps. Sniping-snipers shooting right for and from the heart. Accurate, they. Marksmen, Markswoman. It’s Invisible Ammo. Make no mistake though, out of sight, not out of mind, This good, and this bad. Felt but not soft. Emotion, the sniper and the sniped. The heart: vested just enough so as only to be chronically wounded. Dull not, these bullets. Maybe it’s the blunt impact, the body shock, the disbelief. There’s a difference ya know, between disbelief and it’s antithesis: hope. A vast chasm of a difference. One can still be mistaken for the other though, they are seemingly similar. Deceivingly similar. Similar? How is this? Range, that’s what. Ranges. Ranges mountainesque. Ranges behind. Ranges ahead. Hope is always ahead. That’s the difference between Hope, and disbelief. Chasm crossed.
And this wardrobe again, a walk in closet’s worth. Labels only. Designed collaboration, name branded. Grateful for these accouterments; some, of uncomfortable fabric though. Some even, fabrications. Cut from my own cloth, my own weavings, be they strange, or stranger. Either way familiar. And the others, cut from similar cloths, so they too match my style, but not stranger. I wear both. I mix the matches so as not to be naked, I’m naked enough beneath these fashions, Ever so slightly exposed though. Exposure is best when well dressed.
©2012 Jeff Saphin
OM
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