On Words

“You're doing it again, aren't you?”

he asked with the flip

of an eyelid.

He thought he heard a car horn honk in the response but he must have imagined it.

The post does not arrive, ever on time.

He could feel his inside stomach ache.

This stomach seemed to ask a question of our hero.

“Where are your toes?

Have they left you?

Have they vanished?:”

said stomach's reply.

Out of the dusted road he could be seen, crawling through tough tar and umbilical cords white washed through the desert rain/tread.

He laughed at my description

“What does that person know?” he asked the air.

To his astonishment, the air responded with a flickering of the desert light/switch cacti.

His crawl quickened.

Knowing his destination was a long ways away.

“Ways away...” he repeated.

His stomach churned, asking for water and coals to heat the aether/fire below.

“I am sorry,” he misheard me.

But his belly bucked as the bull before its horns.

The desert rain seemed satirical in its ever/flowing gestures of coconut oil and spare ribs.

He often/frequented that place on the side of the invisible road. How could he see in this desert dark?

Floored by his own power, he pranced over to the next page, concluding with his distinctive period. Plots of land asked for his signature 3 times before taking his life. “Always down to the pit?” he asked his stomach, clad in waffle irons.

But where did he come from, you ask?

No, his rosy cheeks do not speak of the joyless bananas of which he was hoping, but of fruit nonetheless.

She appeared.

In a coat of cacti flowers and 30-somethings.

He tried to write on her spine but found her gutter instead.

She seemed lost.

“In what are you lost, my dear?” she asked.

“Hey!” he yelled, “you can't put words into her mouth.” This didn't phase any of us, but the vibe was different after the spirits left. They embraced, after a comfortable silence between introspective eyes.

The clouds convened: pushing/shoving for a better view of this couple.

Neither of them noticed.

But there were phantoms.

Cloaks of scorpions and sand/dust in the human litter.

Frozen

in

space

they lapped

each others

blood.

Her eyes, seem on some sort of fire: branded; but it was essential to only notice the particulars.

She screamed as an Earth Rotation separated the heavenly bodies

and clouds' lip.

“Forget what you have learned of me.” Tomorrow he is a new person just as yesterday and all the nights to come.

She pleaded with the clouds and asked the earth to begin its final descent into its motherly star.

(All that has come of this has already been recorded by scholars, artists, and carpenters.)

“But how?”

He grabbed the cactus cloak/coat and saw it fit to fake it.

The music changed and changed again back again.

Through its turbulence they saw the path and entered gleefully only after the foot of the floor.

They stuttered their way into the house, for the fourth time she fit in and he out, again in the desert's drooping rain.

The Quartet continued its play: on words.