May 30, 2012
wound
(wrote this as a writing warmup this morning--object writing)
Invisible hole in the heart dripping with dread. No blood or gore or puss or physical pain but bare, bare to see in a handshake, a smile or the sound of a voice drenched in despair. A banana used to taste like a banana and now it tastes like nothing. Sounds fade away to a humming, hmming along, a tick tock of the clock, seconds flowing into minutes into hours into days and the wounded heart steels and heals. Creeping along through a jade jungle. Hacking and cleaving with machete might into the ebony envelope encasing a soul sword that cannot be moved or righted or touched or tasted. Another banana, not ripe yet. Just deadened and hardened. A molasses sea of agony. Crafted by ancient forces of heaven, seated on starlight thrones and wielding stardust lances. Everyone plays their own game, everyone makes their own mistakes, everyone inflicts their own wounds. Everyone, then, is their own doctor--an unrecognizable notion when we presume to be lost in a hazy, barbecued madness jungle. Tumble, rumble, stumble, fumble. At long last you arrive in a clearing. Light beams impale your eyes with insight. This is it, you proclaim and nail the fox tail into the dirt. This is where I will build my temple. Inside the wretched reaches of decomposition, nestled inside the sleeping giant’s wound. He is hurting too, and that smell you detect is the ignorance of kindness. Your fox tail belongs to you and you alone and when you accept this you receive the perfect yellow banana. There is no fruit more succulent and refreshing than this banana. You eat it and then it is gone.
0 Comments:
Log in or sign up to leave a comment!