Fourth Thursday

I
We walk the cobblestone streets barefoot
with black masks tied from temple to temple
with smiles carved to connect our cheeks
with lips filled in blue.

II
We dance through the prison
and celebrate this expensive captivity
by replacing dollars with points
and allowing it to inflate.

III
We learn to ask questions
and to answer questions with questions
and to explore the context of those questions
and to never question the absolute absence of answers

IV
We like the sounds of our own voice.
We record it, remaster and resample the original
add a basseline and redefine ourselves
by the number of downloads compared to the original.

V
Each mask has a different marking.
That marking puts you into a group of similar markings
who hate other markings because they aren't like theirs
even though they don't like their own markings

VI
It seems smart to say "I don't know."
We've worn the masks so long that we don't know
who made them, who placed them on our faces
all we know is the scratch marks on our temples

VII
Some scars are deeper than others

VIII
How many tears have dried up
behind the masks? What if each had a story,
one that could teach us something
or at least allow us to see more than a blue smile.

IX
What will happen when the ties that
bind these contraptions to our faces finally
break? What will we see?
How afraid of our own faces will we be?

X
I want to break every fucking mask I see.