Bust

when i die
i want to be made into a bust on a plinth
thrown through traffic
and then put in some arthouse
on display
my bald head
and my grizzly beard for all to see
all this so in turn the top third
of this bag of flesh may be eternal

we shadowbox through time
but turbulence is a bitch
faces get marred
black road rash
deer blood on flailing canvas
teeth leaving a mouth in slow motion

you already know how this will end

you already know
the triumphs turn to rubble
the defeat
floats up into the sky
on fire
like chinese wishing paper

in a museum of heads and faces
everyone is watching everyone
everyone is scratching at the surface
trying to break through
brick walls behind thin paper
thin paper behind stale air
stale air behind a dead gaze

seventy sets of eyes

forgetting to breathe

trying to remember what it’s like
to be a human being

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Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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