Black Belt

It does not have the strength to hold me. Jogging on pavements in the winter dark. Learning how to fall into judo. I never did make it past white. It does not have the strength to hold me. The threat of black against my neck. Shoe polish. The slightly-quivering chair. Stillness and silver belts. The silver trunks of dead trees. They do not have the strength to hold me. On Horsell Common. A man with a bowler hat and a cigarette ponders my frozen corpse. His gaze does not have the strength to hold me. Broken cups in newspaper. Yesterday’s miaows. Don’t go. Hanging on the telephone, a voice from summer. Bricks piled up on cracked concrete. They do not have the strength to hold me down. I’ll swing and fly in the breeze painted bright. With a smile on my dial. My limbs an arctic clock. My head a frieze, or frame. Pink frost. Tomorrow. It does not have the strength to hold me. Who knows where the wind really comes from. Tan belts, blue belts. The veins on my forearms like blue belts. They do not have the strength to hold broken boxes open. The bottom of the earth spills out, autumn’s flowery leaves. Silver cups and cold sake. It does not have the strength to hold me still. These trembling twigs I call hands. Up above, the light bulb revolves. Radiating hate. Radius of waste. Black shadows. They do not have the strength to hold me still. The capture. Camera obscura. Chill drips. Echoes in a room empty of everything except air. Their toxicology reports. His bowler hat. The frenzied yelps of sniffer dogs. Here he is. Black belt. It does not have the strength to hold me.

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