Writing by J. A. Tyler
Pictured: John Heckman Wright
Visible me, tap tap dancing, a smile on my face face. Glasses on my face face. Dark glasses making of the world a balled shadow, a fist. Us going away, the drop. You. Because there is a leg gone missing and no one laughs. Where is the thing that we had, your face erased by my face, your head consumed by my thinking. My feet tap tap dancing. My angel smile. My choking up face with kid cheeks and the hair bowl-cut and my hands magic filled. Us and our two kinds of red, and I have already taken your limbs. No one laughing when you try to ask when do we start recording and your face is half gone and it is a picture and not a camcorder. There is no recording. Jump they say jump up and dance and I do, my feet tap tap dancing on this rug that is a mute, my neck a swan, your body disintegrating. Because you stood behind all the things I was thinking and now you are only a portion of jaw. You will be the one losing your face. And I will be tap tap tap-dancing like gravestone beautiful tones, the tangle of people disappearing, the playful bodies that overtake you, the disappearing act. Our invisible, only one leg left to tap tap dance on the bones of them who still exist. Hallelujah. They clever joke and split your clenched face. Hallelujah. No one is laughing. Put the table cloth over your face and sleep. Sleep. We will hear voices and they will be asking us questions. I have the answers. You can sleep. Sleep. Me tap tap dancing. My face face face. Your face gone. My feet feet tap tap dancing. The jump as they say jump, because I will be the one who flies away, I will be the one they say visible to, I am the one they are asking questions of. Dark dark and these glasses. My face face. Feet tap tap tap. They are not laughing, Hallelujah. They get it. Letting go of these invisible hands, so hard. This visible me.
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