WHAT THINGS
I AM
CARTING
My own back is liquid, now having become
so through the purvey of toil. Things carried, gruel
matter, slop for a slippery soup. Without that
thought behind me, I notice, I cast no shadow.
I forget, what does that make me? Or is it just
no image in the mirror that is the troubling trait?
Either way, I can't even imagine seeing, ever again.
-
Six o'clock church bells are ringing. I hear them.
It's a sad tune, nothing tumultuous, just slowly sad.
And I can't wait for any other. If they ring for the
time,
then I guess it is right. If they ring for Jesus, then
I can only assume they are far too late.
-
I turned over my cards : they resembled nothing so
much as a bad case of fever, a deck from a cholera
house, the small-poxed prints of a tiny, mad printer.
All these things on my back are what cause me
this distress. If I could loosen my load, I would.
-
No one listens at all : I tell people I am from
another place, slipping in between their
dimensions. I come from colors they have
never seen, nor imagined - a rainbow-hue'd
universe that's been around forever. Long, long
before this idea of theirs, and long, long after
theirs is done. No one listens, nor recognizes
a thing. If I could loosen my load, I would.
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