Righteous You

Why did we get here like broken jewelry sticking out as spokes from a bike wheel, speaking of dikes, blinking at blank faces, trying not to notice the hundreds of piercings? You sold me a branch of cedar which convinced me that you were not only forever haunted my phantoms of misery, but, try as you might to be otherwise, were really just like the millions of others wearing so many layers of clothing and writing bad poetry. I like the smell of cedar, so I thank you and use it in rituals that I make up as I go. This room is rich with purple velvet. I feel it idly when I'm talking or have nothing better to do. It feel much better than the blue velvet at David's house. So you keep jutting your arms out in the L and V shapes, wishing you had a couple of flags, gripping at the air as though you do, making mum mum mum motions with your lips, always willing to sell your body from the neck up, served on a plate to the stars above. Righteous you. That was how we unveiled the company of heaven, shaking our cheeks at the raw wind, at the biting and uncompassionate vastness of space, waking up tortured at dawn with images of the milky stars digging into your exposed brain with a spoon, then smiling as the sweat dries because of an angel voice whispering over your left shoulder. You reach frantically for a pen, find only shreds of torn paper on your nightstand, pull open the drawer,the whole thing coming undone, the wood splitting apart like balsa and arm fulls of yellow crayons spilling out across the floor. You pick one up and start writing on your legs not so well, what marks you do manage to make fading as quickly as you write them, until you look up, scared once more of somebody scooping your brains, and find that it's already 1pm, the voice gone, and only the word "Had" remaining. I've been standing here all night watching you and rubbing the curtains, completely unaware of angel voices or massage parlors for that matter. I point and laugh at you without even realizing that your head is missing and that Nort Angleson has already hollowed out your insides leaving only the cursed shell, hyenas barking in the distant distance, rocks skipping across a pond without anyone to observe it. So with nothing else left to do, I close myself into a small suitcase, pronounce the word "abrahadabra," and am off into the digital extreme.