When you’ve read too much.

#Blasphemy

I am greeted almost daily with red. Royal angry velvet-smooth. Apple red . . . darker: rose red. Red rose. Read rows. Rows, streams, rivers and roads, pool in water that is sometimes urine. Sometimes feces. Today clear but tainted–wine red. Unholy, Bloody nose.

Intense. I swear I’m not. I simmer down low over 2 or 3, electric–no flame–coils morph like snakes but not at all. Or perhaps I boil. Either way. Stimulus with humans and vocal cords necessitate two reactions, a third unspoken–play dead. The chef’s nightmare: tepid water–Conversation.

Pumpkin carriage scares me into sleep. Wherever I fall I call home. Ma maison is always close, right below my feet, always almost within reach. When I arrive I’m already away. Gone to wander old classrooms, play old games, read old books, my childhood lays old beneath my eyelids to disappear as I see time dissipate into dreams. Midnight.

Midas touch without the gold. With air, some would say. Not even my touch–more of a button. Silver grey today. Tomorrow my eyes might not be my own. Makes living more palatable, more scrumptious. A whole meal in itself that fills the belly with exhales of machinery. Soda water.

Ripped thoughts, torn canvas, soiled trees. Worse than dirt my fingers smudge continually as I apply more lotion more pen more neon more soap. Lemon soap. Citrus cuts through words like . . . my eyes through sentences like chronology through linearity. Ha. Book cover.

Like a deck of cards with no heart. Just diamonds, die minz, dye mends my hands and brain and ears. Silver rubs off, cheap. Glass breaks. Queen and Kings pay for this for birth, or rather just Kings. Queens still kept silent as their 13th century counterparts did. Ate hundread yirs dew nuthing two hour stand-herds. Herds. Thats all we are. Connected through one shepherd. iPhone.

Alarm set for 30 minutes earlier than the day before or the day after, instead of music it drips brown, caramel syrup that fills the void in my morning ritual. It wafts into every space be it nostril or ceiling or itself and finally into the depths of my self. Coffee Addict.

Wafers from heaven, moist manna wet from yesterdays [not] rain and snow. Clings to my clothes like dust bunnies. Frolicking in meadow’s dew when the sun cried last or when the moon got too clammy. Tender Buttons.

Wake up with a failed conversation and  midnight soda water left over to spill onto my coffee addict of a book cover, or so the stains prove, to catch my blood from my nose as I type away on my iPhone, “tender buttons. stop. help. stop.”

—Mn. All I know how to do is read, so why not read life? The author is dead and god is dead, so I have to make the plot myself before I, too, am dead. Live the plot. Create plot out of random instances where life seems void of content. Create something out of nothing. Destroy the tabula rasa to live a life backwards through the book so when tomorrow comes you’re not just eating celery but you’re living celery as water as life as new as day as back cover to front cover sleep as as as . . . yes.—