One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #3.

I am finally speaking my mind, to curbs, to streets, to anything that will listen. She taught me to be free, but now her flesh is empty, festooned with dirt. The body is a prison, we all know, and the soul escapes so easily, given one condition; eggshells within eggshells, metaphors apply.

Cockroaches on the floors of my life's cell keep me alive. I play with them, make parades and charge admission to my imaginary friends; I grind them against the walls into fine powder, and suck on them as if they were delicacies, crunch crunch crunch, just to have stories to tell later.

I've never tasted alcohol behind my breath / 
and I've never seen a man before his death / 
but I've seen you lying homesick on the road / 
and I've tasted things that breath should never know.


The snow is falling, which is odd. But I guess in this dream world you get your romantic wish. Now, if only she would be walking this way in a dress...