lightening strike

we shall wander these ink blots with untethered feet wishing for a bit of moonglow to illuminate our soles searching black paces that reflect nothing but our dissidence painted on building sides, street signs, with nothing but a fingertip and the blood that was pricked during our pact to remain pure to the cause because we feared the reaper less than the man who forces us to march to a country band banding us together in little clusters of tumors growing like red cancer all over a healthy brain.

you used to bring fresh sunsets, orange and white ones, because you said together they reminded of a perfect sun that you once saw in one blue iris that winked at you after a night spent camping under impossible stars and a angry coyote, or was it a wolf, howling at a blue moon which made you quote Ginsberg; when i questioned who, your doe eyes turned flying object not flying over us, engulfing me with insecurity that somewhere an alter ego was questioning reason, life, and why we had trekked a thousand miles together when clearly there was no connection beyond our bodies revolving, grinding up a singular universe heating this core so hot that you swore a burn from the inside scorched everything around us; in the morning the lone blue sleeping bag remained in tact other than a peculiar spot where the flannel had turned from grey to white.

you left me at that beaten station with a hundred different reasons stashed in a blue daypack that left my back sweaty, my head filled with square notes of shame; the cancer seemed to be growing, multiplying, feeding off toxic attachment that no amount of reasoning could kill; it kills that there is no shower in this godforsaken place in which to baptise myself reborn in the name of a new lover with old lover’s ghost noose still hanging on; let that be a lesson, girly, drag that host into daylight so that purity in action will burn away each donut shaped cell whose sticky ways tried to remain attached, just like that Man who i asked to leave me alone, he took every possession anyway, after a country hospital said there was no cure for me, and I quote this fact checked: besides we could mend your broken body but you’d die anyway, suffocating under the mountain of receipts we have ready.

a red dust highway, deep in a rust canyon, that i follow until my soul collapses under weight of surreal beauty, pouring thick oil paint into each pore; a purple blanket waiting to tuck me into the final day’s dream.

a red dust highway, deep in a rust canyon, that swallows this last sound’s reverb off prickly vegetation and bits of rock; upshot, i had reached some old Native’s crested butte, still holding his final possession; it remained standing despite alien invasion, no one lays claim on broken red crates and rusted metal hammered together; a smile crept into a shadow as a flash of silver swept across someone’s sky that some name heaven, i learned long ago a name is rhetoric waiting to die ~

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2 Comments

  1. …a wolf howling at a blue moon . . . there’s no need to mention the longing. Is there?

    You have a way of connecting, especially when the reader feels pressed for time and scans then returns to scan some more then go back to the beginning to read properly and to discover the reason why there’s a connection.

    RR

    Reply

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