Sunday, December 4, 2011
I'd like to hang Christmas ornaments from my rib cage, put a collar with a golden bell around my throat so everybody would know that I was coming; give them all a chance to make a clean get away. I'm tangled in mixed views and I really don't know which way is up anymore. I'm pressing my vertebrae up against the rear view mirror of the sky, and it was just yesterday that I learned what it felt like to be trapped. Highways all seem to lead in the same direction, back to the same address, but I'm trying to avoid you now for unknown reasons. I think it's because you're always calling my bluff. I'm stuffing November in boxes, getting rid of wounded bellies and dry mouth wit. Cats with crooked jaws dance with bare feet, and I shut the door on what you and I might have been.