Sombra

A lack of redemption causes the stalk of bridges to welcome me, in their ancient muddy hands, browned by cholera and the many stains that come with time. I never imagined venturing past it, much less existing, like an unspoken tabula rasa (the things I find within small, drilled heads). You said I started to speak like him today. You also called me a fluid Dadaist art form; in every movement a concept was born; some non-Christian theology, an inspiration to those who couldn’t think more than what has been on the spoons. I shivered as I dipped that silver circle into red jelly this recent past. It’s been hard containing such a soft tab of a secret, a secret only because I choose to use a metaphorical term; though it’s more of a righteous plea from the bedpost, but then again, I have many pleas. And that doesn’t make the next child an excuse. He fits, although crowded where the elbows bend like a diseased spine, into a place I’ve not room for.

We can ring out towels all morning if you want, baby. All these dried jackets surround me in a whirl of good weather – and soon, le mer de noms arrive, right, swimming at an extreme angle along the rusty strips of front doors. And roof dormers will crinkle in the middle from the dripping of these noms, making it wet, raggedy, dirtily washed…all for good reason. Good weather. Oh how my sombra collects against pasted texture. I hardly move a pen towards your point. Because, messieur, you see these beads and phrases on a neon fiber-optic string; one that's thick for you.

But by no means, sir, will my candy-wrapper museum be transposed.