oldtimefriend:

On The Street
oldtimefriend:

On The Street

As I sit chilling in the refrigerator there is time but naught to think. Like an egg, upon the middle shelf, incubating, I am becoming a change of phase. Old weight, like heavy self, exists outside of me, being diced and portioned by skilled and loving hands. My mouth has shut up, and the blood of my parents has ceased its constant coursing through my life. My body is not darting from one end of the room to another or hunching too far into its activities. My eyes stare fixedly at plastic wrapped bags of fruit. Alternating light patterns continue outside the door, but silence and darkness have become my music.

How else could someone flip themselves inside out? Noise, the constant motivator, is pushing and pushing and pushing us deeper away from our centers. So much heat sweating us beyond our apocalypse. New York City spinning faster and faster. Population spikes piercing the ceiling of global warming.

Everything just needs to cool for a bit. The sports games get to call time-outs. Sometimes I need more than the sleep I don’t get. It’s a repetition I can’t let up off. Like electric wires wrapped around the feathers of angels. Sometimes we need someone to do the sawing for us, someone who can appreciate the art of butchery, a kind and effective hand. Sometimes we need some time away from ourselves and the extensions branching away from our brains. Sometimes we need to hear the thoughts we’re trying to tell ourselves.

Sometimes that desire for forgiveness is too nagging to be ignored. The golden rule prevails no matter how ingratiating our surface speech may be. When God’s got ideas in his head, he likes to air them out. That’s the rules of the game. An eye for an eye, or a constant obsessing over one eye lost. Even numbers aren’t odd. And odd things stick in the craw. Prayers can only go so far. That’s why I had to die. Serrated edge grating into my trachea. Because murderers are justified to be murdered under this judicial system. And who better to do the deed than the murdered herself?