some old prose

Dug it up from my notebook. As I read it now, I suppose it sort of foretold all of the evolving I would do during the six week silence.


My heart rumbles and quakes like a broken washing machine.
I pry open my chest so I can reach inside and hold it still
and a sea of muted colors silently spills forth
it seeps into the grass like ink blotted on thick, wet paper
enveloping all that is vibrant in fine, black nets of veins
until every branch and blossom become permanent silhouettes.

And then comes the water, lucid gray mixed with melted glitter.
It furls and unfurls gracefully, in climbing columns of spirals and swirls
White froth rises and floats, altostratus clouds, sifted flour
The edges of the waves look too defined; almost pixelated
sharpened so much that there are flecks of pink
making every sway and splash harsh, cold, digital.

My heart pulls the tide lividly, erratically.
The waves thrash like wounded animals
eroding and consuming massive boulders
as if they dissolved as easily as mounds of salt.

There is water inside me, too.
Churning violently in my stomach
sloshing around the crests of my hip bones
infiltrating arteries and traveling to my shoulders
It is hot and nauseating, but it feels good
It feels alive. It is fear.

The water is coming.
I can't swim.