Jeff Alessandrelli "In Spite of Everything." -Jacqueline Lamba

At night we close

our eyes

not because we welcome

death but because

we cherish life

too much to

marry

our tempered

thoughts

to the blues, greens,

yellows and grays

of sight

for hours waking long.

To seek the gold of time,

as André Breton had engraved

on his tombstone,

is to nevertheless realize

that while attempting

such a quest

you might

one day get divorced

in Reno, Nevada

in a shabby municipal courtroom

on a stillborn dreary

Tuesday morning

as André Breton once did,

his marriage

to Jacqueline Lamba

a gradual darkness

married merely

to

revulsion, apathy,

disgust.

The surreal teaches us

that the beauty of the

mannequin

derives from the fact

that it is covered in dirt

and cum and blood

and not that

it was initially

rendered

in the shape of a human,

a woman,

a man.

We often fall

asleep

without falling

asleep,

without closing

our eyes.

The sight of such

an act

never startles.

On the street,

in the park,

passersby

meander and frolic,

the day so painstakingly

buoyant

after the pain-

staking beauty

of the night.


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