what priss represented, what she held, her weld, the sun-fire stickiness coating her vivacious bark (pale skin, gale sound), slips away, stolen off by the habitual sunrise, in morning, every morning. old one-eye, you orange propagator, how vicious do you treat your daughters! what did priss inflict that drives you to stir such agonizing presence in my mind? every morning, through the black-bar criss-cross squares of clarity holding tree branches back, you ascend and align that iris on my prone figure, ignite lids until my pupil, wrenched parallel to yours, waters to keep itself afloat in the flood of light through with devouring your own. Sun, i just want sleep. Sun, there's nothing more worldly that matters to Moe than beds, springs and cotton imprinted with portions of the afterlife. soft box mattresses hold limbo peaks, or maybe a slice of heaven, tucked deep inside the seam-work; rock-hard futons shimmer in their dullness, usher to the highest rung in the drolL life's ladder. and my fluff, my sprawling king-sized nimbostratus, bristles iciness, a fitting Ninth of what I don't deserve: that circle of satisfied matching. threes set like trees, tethered to their earth. chomped to its roots.
Sun, you can't blame Moe for that grey mishap. that concrete stain on Nine's slick surface.
it's not something i'm built to handle. pfft. as if i'm built to handle anything. this job (evaporated), this useless blog (my last lifeline), this coincidental play-of-events (all going to plan) unraveling reversed. from the end we hark to begin anew; so completes the circle true. silly rhymes, rhyming silly - motion matched, match-motion; story of new death, story of new life, stuck between each type. one, two, three. a delay of weeks. it's obvious the few who still follow this are starstruck at my shift of fortunes. 'but Moe,' they say, 'how could such an esteemed and trustworthy corporation as The Coca Cola Company™ amputate one of their loyalest members? lop off such a hard-working pipe facilitating fluid bureaucratic-bowels movement?'
it comes back to priss. gaia's curving boner. (apologies for vulgarity.)
Nine absconded with our unfamiliarity far before we ever adultly knew each other. when we remained new, each other look, half-sighted through the undergrowth's thicket, in our summer-times fostered a rapport unlike anything else my life ever felt. maybe her fiery mane, her crimson conflagration, helped, burned something deep inside, branded us both. i know it's what i returned to whenever we later went to adultly know the other, the will-o-wisps tumbling through my fingers while the trees leaned in to better view our nudeness. the post-coital glow, brought alive by dead follicles, in the clearing where soil and soul intermingled, where earth and heaven conjoined forever. for her, my back held prominence. she ran her hands through every groove and niche present, tickled my spinal column and all its discs between my ass and my brain, matching our eyes, chin on my chest.
and we talked.
"why now?"
"why now?"
"why chase after TV? TV's gone. TV's over. TV came, saw, left us barely alive. if you can call this that."
"TV left before its time."
"what? how do you know its schedule? trying to lure it back is fruitless-"
"nothing's fruitless when the effort's there."
"what effort? an effort to get yourself killed? an effort to bring he...whatever it is back to our place?"
"it's TV's too..."
"i won't let it get you again, priss. i won't let you go up and try to hop off a housetop."
"...they're all his. please, Moe, please...let's not talk about this. now. just give me a reprieve."
her mumbling.
our bumbling.
and the forest drew ever closer.
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