Feathers for death

Waiting for a break-through to pierce through the dark hanging grey.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Waiting for everything to bleed out. To be so empty that there’s only two choices: get up or die. Hoping, at the end of the day — the shock will be enough to ride.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Funny laughing at jokes that aren’t jokes at all. Staving off nightmares that aren’t in dream time cast in dreamland with faces I don’t recognize. More like twisting tangled turnings of the same moment on loop, ad agnosium.

I’m sick to my stomach. Nothing swallows the hunger. Nothing stuffs down inside that hole. But ice cold water flows through it and runs chills like tributaries up my arms, down my back. Throbbing hot but tingling, like at some point, I stood there too long and went numb.

Clicking clocks keep going. The moon’s in a new phase, but I’m so far away that I didn’t even notice. Burning scents that do nothing but make my mind run in frantic circles around the same center, at exactly the same circumference.

Pull one more pin out, unstack one more block. The levee’s already broken, so who cares? You aren’t repairing the wall, replacing the city, re-stacking stones on places you’re going to be living in.

Oh, no, minha doce. Didn’t you notice?
You’re moving the dead.

Ghosts like blackberry thorns snag on your skin and clothes and hair. Prick your knees if you lean in too close. Slice right through your barriers without any warning at all. Draw blood with one slight misstep.

You need a clever winged creature to get you out of the mess you’re in. But you don’t believe in angels and, despite what bitter mystics seem to think — birds are birds. Hunting worms and building nests and minding their own piece. They caw overhead because you happen to be passing by. Not because it means anything at all.

Your like-creatures saw something in you they didn’t like and so shed you like old skin.
And what are you going to do about it?

Ha. Ha. Ha.

You prefer feathers to flowers for the reminders. Discarded, shed, preened, and left. No mind paid to where those feathers flutter or how they rot away. The birds from which they came are long gone. You hold between fingers a remnant of a lack of necessity. Brush smoke and tie to your metal beast symbols of an obsolescence you can understand. One you feel deep down.

Maybe the birds aren’t calling, but laughing as you carry their trash around. Collect nail clippings, attach hairballs to the corners of your bike and the edges of your eyes. Like if you gather enough of this useless mass — it’ll attain a tangible meaning you can burn through.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Nice try.


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