Page 85 - Iterations:Other/Is

☤We are not other people, you and I, we are more skeleton, than breath, and in the same inhale, more breath than — a dream I would die for; I am in the kitchen, with a pint of beer (one I was promised in my dreams) and the cat I do not recognize, but its scent, baking soda, ammonia, a memory stain. A father is sitting in some coffee shop, and a newspaper has an article about a murder(mine); in a moment of insight I realize I'd been talking aloud the whole time(the words palaver— you order pastrami and rye, toasted with extra Thousand Island dressing). I think of a place that seems unimportant to the two(a former professor and pastor wrap women’s socks around each others necks; soiled). I have been the person (in this timeline) who could have taken a dog, but never a cat, the one who puts up with the noise of people and the smell of urine on my pillow, the one who would have made it through university only to return to it indentured. I have always been the person in my head who was able to get a room with a window and a view— We sleep. The dogs walk, the cats stay up until the sun sets, & the birds, the squirrels, & the rats all die; it is midday and their carcasses make a decent soup for the children. Then, at the end of the workday, we wake up, as our minds make lists of all that was lost to sex and superstition, our bodies numb; ⚰ we take communion with shaken polyurethane airheads after dollar cocktails, our brains unable to tell time; this can happen any moment, in any situation, to anyone that is caught in a maddening haze of addiction, I know, I have it in me. When I open myself to the webcam a chorus of red, gray, and blue voices tell me they like my cock/pussy/ both, endless diorama’s of genitalia, grainy but connected; we offer each other asparagus and clams, oysters and celery—when one or the other orgasms the diorama shifts, the background hum of Shivaree in black connection. I don’t care for anything my body has to offer but offer it I do. The only voice I hear then is the silence of the sky, the only breath on all my hands says something like: "I feel like a tree, the only tree that grows in the blackening dark.” ☋ — It is dark, I keep my eyes open, because the light in my mind never stops, a graveyard in reverse(womb?) it can be the last thing from yesterday making movement in fading transmissions until I fall asleep on the pavement by some waterhole. My hands and feet are soaked, as if I have a good wet dream every night, some people move into my in-laws home, share a bed with my partner and I, a smell like freshly squeezed sweat — horizon-less. You may sniff this armpit, she mouths. One of the inmates left a note in my godfather’s jail cell(the one who lived after the other perished; both circles of vehicular salt rubbed in) saying: "The bird-faced bear's eyes, and the spastic hands of the dying peacock/The brown bear's mouth the spastic hands of the dying peacock.” — ⚉If nothing else, I like this story about a bird-