Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Livewood

After three weeks in the desert I can take it no more. The sun, so glorious in its initial welcome, now killing me softly with its song. I remember the well. I remember the dark the shade of my shop my home my oasis.

I turn, and cry just a little so that I may have something to whet my pallette.

It takes longer to make it back, there is no music, and by the time I am on the edge of the square I am crawling gecko like and skeletal across the burning sands.

I notice:

In my absence, a tall, well built store. Built on my corner.

I notice:

The compassionless stares of the people as I slowly crawl toward the well.

Devoid of sympathy, devoid of anything.

I notice:

The irony, the deja vu, the karma.

But I keep my gaze fixed to that hole in the ground. Keep my mind strong with the thought of water, life giver.

My fingers dance, twitching stretching, dirt burning under the nails and blister boiling my skin.

And the well becomes a light, and the earth becomes a tunnel, and my dry throat cries out and my words are:

Fuck it all to Hell.

For from the North I hear the words.

[Hero. You are my hero.]

And drawing strength I stand, and no one moves, no one blinks.

So I walk to the edge of the well, take my cock out, and piss in it.

And laugh maniacally as the town stands agape.

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