Silence in Spraycans

yes you could choose to mourn or
masturbate the difference away - to a place
where shibboleths suffer, suffocate and succumb
to their fear of the snow
    or slide like the soft smell of a bitter wood secretly sleeping
in its alpine womb

yes, you could trap this
sleepy wisp and sell it,
tell it to dust your rear-view-mirror blues
with its provocative greens, dark-greens and other hues
but can you sell me
this silence in a spraycan too?

mascara milk

the hunted became the hunter
the dance became an exercise
the story became a news as
i grew torpid, tactually comatose

an immature infant fed on mascara milk
clothed in the latex of language
(a putrid abstraction saddle-stictched to my skull)
cultured in a colorless confusion created by
catacombs of science and gutters of religion

what proofs do you speak of?
dear cyber-statisticians, you reek of
excuses, not to read the books you've never read
excuses, to not let the dead delete the dead.