PAIN WORKS THE GRAVEYARD
SHIFT
unhurried
employees of Pain drive up to the industrial
complex of her body
in battered Toyotas
park near the outer corridor of her immune system
disembark
take the long climb up the stairs of her skeletal
structure
punch the time clock
shuffle along to their assembly-line stations
scattered throughout the pregnant minefield of her
nervous system
factory of Pain grinds into action
velvet jackhammers chip away
at strategic intersections of bone welded to
muscle
noisy bloodstream conveyor belts
disrupt the faint shadows of pleasure
spiraling underneath her dreams
until she begins to ache
joints glowing like frozen steel at 200 degrees Farenheit
ripples of liquid mercury distress evolving
through her
modifying her
as I see her toss and turn on my bed
skimming the surface of sleep
she feels Pain's fine-grained emory
board working at her
rounding off her mental edges
her mind feels like a low-beam Chrysler headlight
struggling through fog
searching for small pieces of soft beach glass
memories
vomited up
by the black sea of cold acid pressure
circulating in her veins
the production line of Pain shuts down
the residue of her fitful dreams swept up
deposited into tidy little lunch boxes
quietly carried out the back door of
consciousness
Pain
chuckles
locks up and leaves
her camcorder eyelid shutters click open
unfiltered shards of tears expand into my universe
for one second
then fly away
carrying away with them the imprint of Pain's
manufacturing process
to a foreign country across the sea
until the next evening
when the graveyard shift returns