The Evolution of Beard

I have narcolepsy.
            Timeless,        
            spaceless,
everything pauses.
People stop dying,
            weather ceases changing.

I can pass out for minutes,
            hours or           even months.
            I never remember exactly how long.
I forget how to remember
and remember how to forget.
That makes my life easier      and livable.

Every time I collapse,
I see George Clooney,
the sexist man alive                   in 1997.
He is a philosopher on beard.
His beard is an exposed secret,
                       not mysterious, but seductive,
growing on his naked chin,
            like low grass sprouts on a piece
of bare land.
It emerges from the tiny sweating pores –
            the spines of an urchin,
salty and dangerous.

Women also have beard,         invisible one,
he believes.
That’s why they buy shavers.
Her beard is a disguise, like make-up               and glasses.
It reveals what is concealed.
I slide my palm on his chin,
the sound is less peaceful than hymns,
more forceful than speeches.
It’s a tasteless,
                        weightless,
                                                 lifeless
marker of time.
Why can my own lips and
            beard never embrace?
            I wait, and wait to turn his beard into goatee
            without coming round.