Tuesday, August 10, 2010

My instincts called me for a drink and then abandoned me.

In my head I was reading a manual on
How to make Texas feel like a water-balloon, but
that's not where I live. Some days,

 you wake up feeling like red meat, the salt burning
down into you. You strip yourself bare of what remains 
of your skin to make it go away and it returns on
a sledge, down your chimney, into your socks. You 
know then- feet failing, spine dissolving, head in your hands
like the seashore you once tried to snatch at and
store for later- that everything leaks. In my head, this isn't it, red meat is
rot so lets switch to green. We can move to another city,freshly 
brewed,all the splashing and its still not Texas.My myths fail to
pull me down or even take me to the 8th floor terrace
again, my myths are starving and 

soon they will let up.My fingers, my nerves,my art,ditto.Some days
you are the last hospital wing, housing too many, the stench
of some poisoning the rest.You're a Saturday smile before 
the wasting away,that's when you break. Some days you
know your next move and then you switch positions, unaware
of still being in the same skin that crawled back on anyway.

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