Thursday, July 25, 2013
Last night a woman in my mouth refused me, refused the journey my tongue offered. This was the end of night. This bleeding is the beginning of day, perhaps what brought me to my knees-- little things in the stacks get me. The coward placed 2 circles beneath my tongue-- easier than a hive to dissolve, and my tongue welded them together like it must always be a maker, 2 sweet tarts filled with numbing powder and soft, but soft, went the night so I couldnt feel the ache-- blue ache, then green fading yellow and lighter, lighter till it disappeared. Be the day circles, triangles, deceiptful Softs or an unyielding lover, it begins with my tongue's memory. One never remembers the medium nights. Who wants them, I lie raised on deck, a blue heron in the pond, feet covered in patties of duck weed, a pot of turtles and snakes stew beneath , fearless or ignorant is the baby heron? I am sitting on a hive, recalling my fifth step brought me to my hands, write hand impaled by the needle it fell on, recall a stream of blood means relentment.