When I am back, be in my bed.

There are gigantic troll feelings
Grating lava across volcanic national parks
And no sight of the moon-peg
On any night

But I saw the northern lights instead
They were moving in tango
Pointing to the end of the skies
Where there is no more blame
And no more anger
And yet you and I are there too

I tried to listen to my muse
But she can’t be heard
She’s Swimming in sparkling waterfalls.
I overfed her.
With content
And completed her
With the shocking vocabulary of nature.
Deadly thing to do to a muse.


--------------
I sit on the floor, my head in hands. I accidentally pull the curtains open with a jolt of a hand. But really I want to see the street better. The window spits its outside into the yellow of my kitchen. Outside makes me colder. It makes me remember of the hat I had to wear because my grandfather made me. He died many years ago. I should have just disposed of the hat back then. But I didn’t. I still have it on. I pull on a pair of muddy boots and drag myself outside into the storm and scream of nature. I hire a taxi and want to keep it for a day. The driver says he can’t, he has a funeral to service. Ah the dead… He looks at me through the rear view mirror above his head without turning as if afraid to let on that he acknowledges me. He narrows his eyes at my hat, worrying. I can see he is distressed, looking now around his cab in disbelief. A person like me on the back seat can make his cab seem not his cab, not a cab at all.

I offer my attention excessively to the lazy twirling of the tongue of all my cab drivers. I attach myself. I should just mind my own head, but I can’t. I am lonely. “do you miss anybody ever?” I say.

It is Thursday night and the bars are packed with economy supporters. If everybody goes out three nights a week, the financial crisis can be averted in no time.

I close the lid too fast and a slice of my skin stays shut between the glass and the aluminum. My fault. I make my own life slices stuck in inadequacies.

Somewhere behind the road signs, somebody is flying a sarcastic grin through unattending skies.

“this is all I can do really,” my own grin says. I am ineffectual, spineless, and lifeless. The wind picks up my hat for me and carries it off. If the cab driver didn’t have the dead to drive around, I would have still been inside his car, with my hat on. I wonder whose funeral it was. I think of my grandfather.

It’s like I don’t deserve most things. It’s like I am too strange.