Sunday, September 23, 2012

The Mouth of the Issue.

Those sad eyes barrel through me; setting my esophagus open as a tunnel.  And I said, okay, okay.  This can be good, all these things accumulating in me like lost objects.  A pen, a knife, a rusted nail, a broken coffee cup.  Inside of me is like rustling through the leaves in the backyard:  somethings left behind, some in front of you for no reason.  And all the red blood cells mount their horses like riders torn and ride off into dissipation, leaving abnormal levels of chemicals like anguish within me.  I've got to leave and it is going to have an endless feeling to it.  If you could see me before, then you'll never see me now.  When I said I'd do your chore I was just like a sow. And those flames reach to the waist and keep the waves below your wrist.  Shoot your eyes up into paste and get a doctor to look at that cyst.  I will walk into the woods and lay me down for hours.  I will eat up nothing but the goods and pretend I'm building towers.  Something like what I was is what I was.  Something like what I am is what I am.  Like a silent wind through black trees with the moon unfolding a carpet of light for us to walk upon.  We hear bubbling and cursing as we set the thermostat higher.  Bring me those sad eyes for me to open up, let my mouth stand agape as the wind turns the birds to scattered graphite.