Transactions from the  Edge
By Chip Marks

These were days I could remember quite well.
Days when the doors were all closed and painted curious shades of red.
I couldn’t tell you if it meant anything because.
I don’t know if anything meant anything at this point.
It all pointed down. So I wrote it down.
Someone told me you could lose everything important to you in one split second.
And they also said he would walk again, even as his limbs withered.
There were bridges I would sit under to feel what it felt like.
Textures of darkness we all look away from, color we don’t want to see.
These others they go there, those girls they laugh and they spit and choke.
And the boys… well they were just strange Polaroid smears, close-ups without focus.
But it all stained the same and all felt just right when the lights were bright.
The fluids dried on your skin and in your hair that you could never wash off.
You shudder those mornings you awoke to stranger sheets hanging from rafter thoughts.
I recorded it all in detached sublimation, a job I was never paid enough.
Journalism was always my strong suit in these more erratic days.
Just reporting from the field I saw the grass die under my feet.
There were no more second chances, no more brighter days.
Our dreams and fairy tales peddled to the highest bidder.
We were much too young for these transactions.