A 70mm reel
rocks and rattles
as my hands
turn the crank
and give it life.

The projector beside me is a
cannon of reminiscence--
with sparks of light, it
launches nitrate memories onto
a blank screen,
each frame a white dove
flashing its wings
and giving way to the next.

In the booth,
I sit alone and
wonder how this
applies to us.

A closer look reveals
each frame of ours
an orchestrated display,
a calculated pose,
a poster promotion
manufactured only to wow
the crowd and empty
the pockets of
everyone involved.

And under heat, we
catch fire like a fuse
and melt, frame by frame:

and volition
goes up in flames,
and irrationality
steals the air from my lungs,
and we crumble and crack into
scraps and embers.

There was water in the back,
but it turned to steam.
And now, we are nothing
but another movie.