I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.

An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.

I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--

And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.

The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room

onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.

I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)

The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.

(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)

Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--

Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.

I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.

These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.

History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.

I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.

I thought love meant
       Butterflies in your stomach
       Your heart skipping heartbeats
       Or a faster rate for that matter
       Being mesmerized by your significant other
       Watching movies together      
       Late night conversations
       Stealing kisses every now and then
       Staring at them and get caught looking
       Cuddling and holding each other's hands
       Enjoying the moment even when the future is scary

But love came out to be different from all of that
      
Love is letting all of those go
       When I thought it meant everything to him
       When all of it meant nothing at all
       When I thought I was his everything or even "something"

But no
       I am nothing
       What we had was nothing
       What I thought we felt
       Turns out to be what I felt
       I
       No "We"
       No "Us"

None

I kept a screen
Before my mind,
To re-run clips
Of your fine lines.
Glad for new-age technology,
The IMAX use of 3D;
I'll use the big screen monolith
To screen the edit
Of your breadth and width.

Oh how many times
have I watched
a movie
I don't want to see
with a guy
just cause I want to see
him
naked

There is not always stars.
The small I-do's we said that night,
We're not done
Under a blanket of moonlight.
We did not sit by a fire
Holding love in our bones,
Mending.
We did not walk on a beach,
Toes in the sand,
Love at first sight.
You did not pull me in and kiss me.
We didn't even say much.
But it was beauty,
The way you smiled at me when
I emerged in your doorway,
With a dollar store rose of apology.
The way you rigidly
Imperfectly hugged me.
In sticky sweet serenity.

Hardened to experience
Like gum beneath a chair,
I cannot explain
This lasting hunger for simple fictions.

Yet prompt me as you tried so long ago
To imitate the joker in the balcony
Who shouts “I’m gonna be sick!”
And launches a bucketful of mushroom soup
Over the railing,
To this day I forget my only line.  
The gestures, too.  
And the sound effects?  
The mind’s ear can’t hear them anymore,
Let alone vibrate to them in Sensurround.

But I’m still slouching down in familiar dark,
Feet stuck to the floor, waiting for the previews to end,
Hoping that a moving picture conjures
Something whose absence has become
So powerful that I begin to think
It’s really the presence of something else.

The aroma of our time together
So many years ago lingers
Like the faint odor of mushroom soup.

Sit in your seats
You got popcorn right?
So reelman, please start the show
Or we'll be waiting all night
The reels start to spin
The images begin
To light up the giant wall
All of our eyes have focused upon
The illusory art of visual storytelling
That has gained so much admiration
From millions (and millions) across the nations
You can have your Netflix
You couldn't **** the radio station
And even though the industry's saturation
Has long since tainted the silver screens reputation
Some magic and memories from tinseltown are still created
And their impressions cannot be duplicated