pennies from heaven
Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeist
sometimes i like crawling into closets to play with dusty skeletons. i sit, knees pressed to chest, hunch-backed, crouching in the corner's corner sipping salty sentiment from a rusty tinfoil flask. after thorough innebriation, i proceed to stage left and give passersby instructions on how to savagely abuse one's innerchild and distribute manuals on transforming anything into a vice. my childish ability to trust has been molested by bony fingers that can't help but poke and prod. i've found finding acceptance in the eyes of hypercritical reflections relies on regular reinforcement of opaque lies. and i'm too tired for all that. i'd rather dance awkwardly with crippling truths and learn to laugh at myself for the sake of managing this elusive sense of sanity. two weeks ago i counted my own contradicting self concepts until i slipped into an anxious sleep. i dreamt of temples overcrowded with porcelain deities who did nothing but binge and purge on a faceless congregation's insecurities based upon the fragility of their mortalities. i awoke in a cold sweat of tears unwept and felt a potent moment of inspiration. i made a mosaic depicting smokey gray mannikins doing exercises in moral flexibiltiy led by a fallen angel with the smell of sex and whiskey on her wings. content with my creation, i said a prayer for all the children and went out to dance for pennies from heaven.
published in The Black Widow & The Brown Recluse, March 2003
published in fingerprints, 2003
recorded on fingerprints, 2003
website at Sam Skeist