Coming to Terms with My Belly Snake
I saw a man pulling a deer inside-out yesterday.
I turn myself inside-out pretty often as well. In fact, I did it yesterday too: reached a tentacle down my throat, deep in the wet guts and yanked it, awful hard - came up bloody, green, scarified, guttural - then ran down the street shrieking - stop hounding me, everybody! Stopped for a cigarette on the curb, not caring wtf u think – hopped on a bus, a freight, a jet, a Greenpeace vessel and was last seen heading under-dressed for the arctic (think monokini, flip-flops) - I once quipped: her heart was as fleeting as the polar bears’ existence; seems that was taken too serious. Earlier years: scrap-booked a life in seashells and starfish - smashed clocks with a ball-peen - chewed through thumb-drives and clipped toenails - banged to Pink Floyd and belted opera to Nirvana - Fantasia, trippin’ on shrooms - under black light back in ‘92. Later years: slow crawl in a woman’s larynx, uninvited, I give chase - stop scaring the others! - all the happy, blithe, ant-hill people. This destruction is only meant to be therapeutic for the walking wounded, the initiated... Now: why do you keep fighting, she asks me. I reply, I hold due the tragedy of imagining, and I am too scared to surrender.