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MOTION THOUGHTS
Tuesday, November 21, 2006more old wordsI dreamed the world was ending. I was scared until I found you. You took me to the zoo.In reality, you are not here. I sit on my windowsill and smoke myself stupid. I tip ash over the ledge and pull fire between my teeth: to light up the cold inside. Evil smoke curls around my face and makes my eyes water. The familiarity of the action starts mental upset, learned behavior working to my disadvantage. The black cigar keeps my lips from trembling -- stay steady, breathe in. My fingers betray me while my clouded mind drifts in some other sky. Trains in the distance become whales. (Where are they coming from? There's not a railroad or a beach for miles.) The whole idea shakes me. I ask myself, "What have I done?" Over and over. No longer a magic eight ball. No magic answer floats up into truth. I only produce smoke and sickness, floating on the blue dyed pool of my shallow person. I fumble eternally, make excuses. Finally I force myself to stumble back to bed -- no longer a haven for my sleepless self, my spine too twisted to find rest. The post-tobacco taste which normally makes me happy is disgusting tonight -- a reminder of my hideousness and rejection. I burned away my heart. Held the flame over the bowl of my tears and now I'm dried up -- is it what I wanted? The prospect terrifies me. I spend two days crying in bed to recuperate and win back my human parts. I curl into a deep alone, eyes singing to the symphony outside.
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