Saturday, April 2, 2011


When the faces appear and dance before me
in the darkness
barely past the extent of my arm
I'll sit up and throw down the sheets.

While they tear me into their world
with a stillness of light too green
to be light
I'll seek to brush my toes against at least one
tall Eucalyptus and grab as much sweet jasmine
air into my lungs
before being placed into their arms;
before getting pinned down like a limp
frog in a god's laboratory.

My friends have taught me to win in life
by pinning any frogs down with a solid fist
and never flinching;
to always yell;
to fight.

My friends are disfigured.

When the strangers in gray are carving out
my frontal lobe, I'll think of my father
and how he taught me what freedom is—
and maybe about how I'll give that orb of fury;
sponge between my eyes—to someone spiteful.

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