sunday night

i had a day dream that i found a path of branches to the sky. i could climb a garry oak and the cathedral of branches would go up and up (body suspended in black spider veins against the blue and white sky) until i could look down and think if i fell i would crack my skull a thousand times before the ground could find me. oh to be alone and so much closer to the sky.

i love to run at dusk when the peacocks cry in the park. do they try to sound this plaintive? their cries echo and evoke dying knights and dead ghosts of maidens. when you approach the blue and gold gilded pear her tail opens like a switchblade, and you are suddenly trapped in the gaze of thirty-seven hypnotic eyes.

objectivity is a lie. subjectivity is truth.

"there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody's asleep.

I say, I know that you're there,

so don't be

sad."

-charles bukowski

i anoint my lucid skin with a tough white cake of mother's milk. the path my hand follows, the only one possible at this moment, travels my body as the heat rises and stings my skin, now white, now red, now pink.