Under, beneath, above, on the side, inside, across from, over- over my cup of coffee. Over my dead body. Over my tea and my coffee. Over my cup of coffee (which is half decaffeinated and half caffeinated; no sugar and no cream) the thoughts think beneath my skull as pink dreams dissolve then sink beneath warm asphalt littered with salt. It was snowing. Now it's not. Now it is quite hot; bright even- too vivid. The sky opens wide like a high priest trying to swallow his pride. Inside my mind it is warm; behind my eyes exist a thousand reasons not to apologize. In place of sorry we scream then bite our tongue in between our teeth while staring at numerical shapes, designs, and signs hanging heroically in the sky. Triumphantly. A tragedy. The number thirteen.
The number thirteen writes itself in the clouds, black cats scurry on a horizontal line in front of feet, the light turns from green to yellow in the intersection, mirrors break, all the umbrellas hidden in closets open of their own accord, you forget to hold your breath while driving past the cemetery- you smell the stink of deceased bodies. You think of hell while dreaming of heaven. With conviction you believe- for seconds of split ends- in benediction. Then, again, that stink.
Inside my mind and behind my eyes. Thoughts think.
The thoughts are thinking; they are performing a ballet. Pirouetting in pretty lace stockings. Hopping, skipping, down boulevards, streets, avenues, and lanes. The thoughts walk, the thoughts talk, finally the thoughts stop at a crosswalk and decide to cross it; to leave my head- they creep along in pairs out through the follicle spout of my hairs escaping into the world in a new form via my mouth and/or this paper and this pen.
Something is born.
A thing- this thing, begins.
The number thirteen writes itself in the clouds, black cats scurry on a horizontal line in front of feet, the light turns from green to yellow in the intersection, mirrors break, all the umbrellas hidden in closets open of their own accord, you forget to hold your breath while driving past the cemetery- you smell the stink of deceased bodies. You think of hell while dreaming of heaven. With conviction you believe- for seconds of split ends- in benediction. Then, again, that stink.
Inside my mind and behind my eyes. Thoughts think.
The thoughts are thinking; they are performing a ballet. Pirouetting in pretty lace stockings. Hopping, skipping, down boulevards, streets, avenues, and lanes. The thoughts walk, the thoughts talk, finally the thoughts stop at a crosswalk and decide to cross it; to leave my head- they creep along in pairs out through the follicle spout of my hairs escaping into the world in a new form via my mouth and/or this paper and this pen.
Something is born.
A thing- this thing, begins.
No comments:
Post a Comment