110. MY SKELETON HOUSE

MY SKELETON HOUSE
Just what was it that came forth from something else?
A wayward form of 'otherness', a tinkling of
the bones just before they were roused to
life? I've noticed that none of this is
written down, anywhere - and anywhere
it is is pure conjecture.
-
'We are air' the rudimentary doctor was
saying. 'We are water and grit, we are
rivals of God and angels to boot'; some other
guy was mouthing his own lyrics in like fashion.
I skipped out before I could skip a beat.
If I was anything, I was getting bored.
-
Just outside, overhead, there was a tramway which
took people to the airport or cadavers to the morgue;
I actually do forget which. Now listen, none of it
really mattered. I simply felt all this was portrayed
for our own amusement. What difference would it
make if I was flame and you were fire; or I was
glass and you were sand? Not a minute's worth, right?
-
This can all go on forever. We each differ.
We are what we say we are. You drive
cars, maybe, while I take trains.
My skeleton house, I've noticed, actually
does have two doors. One, for entry,
another, for exit. Quite different,
and both clearly marked.