by Debbie

The black navel of contemplation—the theater hall—
throbs, brash flashes of screen light assault.
The walls holding in the public: strobe, engross, entomb,
fragile denizens of the dark—in their skin sacks. Gazing
ever outward—as emotion and anger floods over them.
Never acknowledging, their own vicariousness; they sit.
The black falsifies—corpus mundi—the body of the
world— it is a screen of aqueous humor between
the orb of eye nourishing mind over matter. The
bouncing ball of real and surreal worlds scroll,
dragging the onlookers, back and forth in compared
realities; abandoning, then reclaiming, their own; they sit.
Navel of contemplation—the theater hall entices,
buttered and brined, a sugary delight, stock still;
they sit like snippets on the floor of the cutting
room. The darkness secures their plight. Infinity
spools on a real reel, behind and above, brazen.
Blasted fronts, monochrome backs, slouched; they sit.
Throb-washed flashes of screen light assault.
Flinches go unnoticed. Tears unclaimed. Winces
chuckled at. Massed emotion masked untapped—
paid for by dirty lucre. “Whose game’s being played?”
One hundred times bigger the Gulliver’s prance
as Lilliputians huddle entranced; they sit. 
The walls holding in the pulse; engrossing, entombing
fragile denizens of the dark in skin sacks. For the time
allotted, they pause and reflect: do not act,
do not move, feed their habits. Neither, to left nor,
to right do they speak for interaction can certainly
cause havoc; they sit.
Gazing ever outward as emotion and anger flood
over them, never acknowledging their own vicariousness:
in the theater, the cinema, the house, the outhouse—corralled.
They sprout; trapped in anima mundi—the soul of the universe
as year after year; they find this their only way out: skin-walled
bone-baited, sour suckers; they sit.

*Written in an original form called Etcetera
Published First in Crack the Spine Spring 2015



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