clasps

clasps



marigold flowers and pine needles, dried, roll up in bible paper loose and stinky. we sat on the porch wasting matches in an august hum until my dad told us not to. that all happened before that stetson kid popped a handful of ammonia smelling salts, threw em in a jar, then shoved it under my nose. next time the fire, saith the lawd. in the final analysis, he couldn't deal with having his eye(s) pulled open. neither could i, though.

i spread my wings like an arizona butterfly and stepped off the path into the treacherous embrace of where rock used to be. the sons of heaven fall below the mountain lying down. a knowing glance from the sky. before i embarked i knew it went nowhere. always the tourist, never the fugitive. of course not. i clearly wasn't forced out, and i can go home whenever i please.

all the windows are open and the crunch of this yellow autumn bounces off hollow trunks and into my house. into my ears. what's left of bones buried like drug money. the rim of a breastbone reaching above the loam. the tattered threadbare thiftstore finds rotting unworn. in the middle of the morning i startled a raccoon in my compost bin. startled is not the right word. i found her, and she stared at me for a second, then carried on harrying the vegetable carrion found therein. folks, i just live here. i aint runnin much.

each new assault on the machine leaves an even more faint mark than the last. they shall not pass, but it's common knowledge that i will and fast.