cicadas can still be heard, always in trees far away from where you stand, as if they were almost as confused about the order of things as we are. just once, maybe they could play their jittery concertos closer to home so we could, at the very least, have a conversation. attempt to suss this shit out?
“give it a week”, says Ol’ Man Gutter, “your balls will be too frozen for you to care.”
wind the chord around and stab it through, just like your tired entrails do.
is Thelonius Monk mocking you from the grave? makes perfect sense in this current nail-gnawing atmosphere. difficult to tell which stutter is digitally accidental, or surreally intentional.
all the while the world outside remains flat. like blank printer pages. the kind I give to my daughter, so she can make worlds of them, with her chalks and markers, because I am too flat like the world I’m trying to offer her.
given the choice, yet not able to choose. sometimes the moon is that much brighter when the torch is taken away at the last possible moment before the hike through the fucking dead forest begins. shadows make the rocks and pitfalls look like raw diamond-edged adventure. cannot take me hostage here, I go willingly. regardless of the stumbles and the scrapes; the laughter drowns out the pain, and the blood writes the pamphlet.
[I am a flower that only blooms during the day, hidden and afraid at night, and she is the sun’s rays, beckoning my petals to open.]
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