“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.