Bird-Sputter Internationale
Moon in my gut, sunshine overhead. I am moody, tracking psyche and finding a spot in the current. I am busy and dependent on the color of the sky, but not every time there is a sky, which eliminates a common denominator, a pattern, a logic.
Sometimes hormones, sometimes unwelcome grandmotherly strangers, sometimes spiders in the kitchen which actually are cave crickets, involve their moist invasive feelers. Sometimes I act like a girl and scream. My circulatory is caught in globular sonic vines sung by modern machines and French bodies. I wonder how many more people it will take, telling me I have French air about me, before I believe it and it is true. Uh, oui?
Yesterday I nearly split into variously shot pieces, gunpowder blown. Oversight and resulting red frustration—I dislike erring; that very dislike I consider to be a fundamental flaw prohibiting peace and flight. Mis-takes, spills. Error and allergies and antihistamines and hormones and persistently upheavaling passions—gutted me yesterday. I flayed open like a tigerlily flat in exhaust fumes, and then drove home.
This morning at a stop sign on my way to work I decided to begin to love to err. And then I turned a sharp left, maniacal, laughing.
Humming under antihistamine but flecked with sun, today I flit lightly—having been advised by an Irishman that I have youth I should enjoy. Always I will, I told him, I plan to defy time, don’t you?
Sometimes hormones, sometimes unwelcome grandmotherly strangers, sometimes spiders in the kitchen which actually are cave crickets, involve their moist invasive feelers. Sometimes I act like a girl and scream. My circulatory is caught in globular sonic vines sung by modern machines and French bodies. I wonder how many more people it will take, telling me I have French air about me, before I believe it and it is true. Uh, oui?
Yesterday I nearly split into variously shot pieces, gunpowder blown. Oversight and resulting red frustration—I dislike erring; that very dislike I consider to be a fundamental flaw prohibiting peace and flight. Mis-takes, spills. Error and allergies and antihistamines and hormones and persistently upheavaling passions—gutted me yesterday. I flayed open like a tigerlily flat in exhaust fumes, and then drove home.
This morning at a stop sign on my way to work I decided to begin to love to err. And then I turned a sharp left, maniacal, laughing.
Humming under antihistamine but flecked with sun, today I flit lightly—having been advised by an Irishman that I have youth I should enjoy. Always I will, I told him, I plan to defy time, don’t you?
2 Comments:
allergies are good time-beaters, i think. they slow everything down to a cough, a snort, a sneeze.
yes they do. they make themselves the focus, damnably or not.
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