The Face I've Worn

         I wear a mask.  The exterior is a face that exposes what the world expects from me: composure.  The underside of it is a black screen onto which is constantly projected images: Colt .45 blown head, gibs of white skull with flesh clinging, gobs of blood and soft tissues, brought to light making it sheen; letting pools from wrist to white white snow soaking my essence as my knees go weak and I gently lay myself down into a freezing pool of me; small mountains of clean looking pills and a bottle of red red wine to chase them down, to help them dissolve; an empty fifth of whiskey next to a naked body, a disfigurement on the empty sidewalks of bleak January streets; footprints that lead to a hole in the icy lake with my outline, shadowy, under the transparent sheet; severed and crushed chunks of limbs disembodied by a heavy train;  the excitement of flight before my vessel collapses into the rocks; a choke chain collar, a rope and a chair kicked away; the gurgling of my alcoves spitting while a knife plunges again, and again, splitting the ribs of my breast; the smell of the sea, then, the taste of it, then, an empty sound, more and more empty, the gentle tide rolling and settling, rolling and settling;  the plastic wrap stretching to squeak across my mouth and my nose; my head postured out, opportuning the grill of a hot diesel block; this body emaciated to the bone, dried and flaking among the sage; a tongue, my dumb tongue, stuck to a high watt/high volt current, the sound of a breaker blowing;  the wrapping of a string stolen from a piano around my neck, a strict pull at either end; the heart, after so much whimpering, finally deciding to stop its fighting.  These images play across the screen, adopting a variety of settings, mixing and matching.  I evaluate possible errors.  I consider the best times to carry them out so that they are uninterruptable.  
       The mask I wear is not the most aesthetically pleasing piece of art I’ve pieced together, but the outsider sees the body under it carrying out its tasks, acting civilly, even acting in a manner to bring joy into the lives of others.  The extension of the body reassures them that although the mask is false, it carries some credibility.
       I’ve decorated the mask.  Pinned to its underbelly are works in progress:

a note posted for Her: 

It’s not your fault. You are just a coincidence in a string of coincidences.
I don’t blame you.  Go on: live and
love… I am so sorry