Cricketing

It is one of those days where I feel I should sink into the earth.  Not necessarily a bad thing, this emotion propels me forward on the pavement with the notion that my feet are being touched by strange vining hands.

Yawning in public and covering the mouth.  Wearing a large sweater though it is warm outside.  Feeling suddenly quite old and marveling at parking structures.  Secluding oneself in a corner and typing.  Wanting paper but knowing it would feel corpse-like in this day.

It sounds depressing, but it isn't.  It is merely exhausting.  I want to sleep but be enveloped in doing so.  I want intense warmth, I want to feel feverish in this heat.  The language sounds sexual but the experience is not.

I can assume this experience comes of having strange dreams.  But I am unable to connect today and have such a desire to return home and sleep.

For now, I imagine and drift away from conversations.  Today, it will suffice.

The Fire

The Fire

A man said to me, “my head is on fire.”
I took it to mean he had a fever
or that his mind was so full of ideas
he had to depend on such metaphors.

But no, the man’s head was on fire
and the fire burned with such splendor
I understood him to be bragging,
for which, I feel, he had every right.

He had piled those many sticks
upon his metal, maybe gold, crown
the embers biting into his brain,
the fire itself shooting up, his hair.

Despite this, he is calm, noble,
he wears a lovely pendant regally
and stands so very straight
as his waxen neck melts away.


 -- anyway, I have no idea where this came from...