I am not a treeI am not a bird
I am not a cloud
the dream rotted in my blood
the dream rotted in my bones
once in the dream I slaughtered a girl
beside a cypress tree
now I stretch out a piece of cloth
and lie down under it
I had loves
I had battles
and I lurked in corners
my nails grew long
my lips grew swollen
my face grew black
I am not a tree
I am not a bird
I am not a cloud
. . . . .
Friends and Strangers, it is spring. The winds here are blue and cold. The nights are clear, raked by stars, wild scything palm fronds, and the scattered glittering edge of our city's constellation. The mountain in the north is black. Underneath the storms of light, it is night. The waves file in, and out, and in. The body is a tide pool filled again with a darkness of faceless things. I haven't slept all week. I crawl on my back and pace the geometric stairs of the eucalyptus tree. A billion doors the size of leaves are green. I accomplish nothing. The money, nervous and black, rabidly adding itself in the mean breeze. Everything nervous is shining in the dark. Blood, leaves, numbers, the young. The mirrors are everywhere and won't reveal a thing. With my cup of coffee I think of you, on your beaches, in your woods, looking at the blue prison of your sky, shrinking into the earth with your own self understanding. I'm a monster, too. I look at myself, and can't believe the indifference of these now silent hands.
. . . . .
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