The year was 1983 and I was still in gestation,
two and a half years yet from my birth.
Sid and Nancy were mere echoes, not a movie yet,
but still the face of our generation,
The muscle rippling under our skin,
the skeleton in our closet.
In 1983 I died,
strangled on my own umbilical,
a bloodless death yet wrought with blood.
I might have done it myself.
They say that history repeats itself,
even in reverse.
And the silence roared.
In 1985, I was born,
a skinwalker to wear my skin as if it were another's.
Curiosity killed the astronauts,
but it was malaise and misplaced guilt that killed me.
I yanked my own heart out and trod upon it as if it were my worst enemy.
I like to say I was betrayed by the Trojan Horse
but it was I who laid in wait inside.
A fugue in b# imploded in on itself
taking with it desperate whispers
marinated in spinal fluid,
pickled, as it were.
That was the year I found the lord in a shot glass.
Amen to that, my friend.
86 proof prayers alleviated the pain
and rained down death and destruction as well.
My step in the good soldier's march faltered.
The voice in the box screamed for escape
only moments after swallowing the key.
In 1992, I died for the third time.
There's something holy in threes.
I picked up his neatly folded clothes stained with speckled cordite.
Putting them away, I was amazed that the blood stayed on my hands,
Not a drop transferred.
No longer a skinwalker, merely skin, walking,
I forced one step in front of the last.
Line of sight to the horizon,
a never changing view.
A barely audible mumble buzzed around my head
until I swatted it, leaving a muddy smear.
The year the world stopped spinning.
You all died.
Did you know that?
Oh hell, it was just me again.
This time, the last,
a man in an untenable place,
a world of illusion
where the rabbit faded into obscurity inside the hat.
Faded not with a bang,
but with an insignificant electronic beep.
A dancing dot that lost its dancing shoes.
My eyes turned to stone
and Medusa laughed
1997 was quiet.
I was birthed again,
blind as a newborn puppy rooting for a teat.
I became a skinwalker again,
but maybe a bit more comfortable with the suit.
Born of blood
Died by blood.
And born yet again.
but ever truly alive?
And the silence shed a lonely tear.
© 2011 David W Moore III
Fireflies wink flirtatiously;
A night sky of heavenly bodies,
In mathematically described
but unfathomed paths.
immortalize smiles and poses,
Firing so rapidly to become
an antique projector.
With clack and whir
the best of times play across our faces
in soundless black and white.
Behind us, shadows grow long and dark.
Strobe light flashes give them life.
Horrific specters and wraiths
Dancing to the beat
as it implodes in a silent roar
and dissolving shadows
Black rain falls
Coursing across nothing
Washing it clean...
and falls back
Once again, nothing becomes.
A firefly winks hesitantly.
© 2011 David W Moore III
Alice and the Event Horizon
Brushing the wisps of solar wind from my hair