Literature
Speech, Right?
Your words fasten to my flesh by the neck. They lead me down an old road, a trail of tears worn by years of tread. Footprints desperate, facing the other direction we now walk. Your words flow freely as the flooding stream that has broken its banks in the torrent. Your throat choking mine, I fall silent. Swept along, you return me to that familiar shack where there is a whipping post out back. This is where you leave me because I can take it from there. There is where you leave me to go meditate upon a religion that blames the sufferer for his suffering. Somehow I shamble from the post freshly stained because self-flagellation never leads to salvation. Return to a dry town that preaches in daylight that all sin kept in bottles hidden should never be opened. Ever. But in a sundown town, when the vessel makes a sound a bottle, now broken, brings back a flood of that unspoken. What starts with a poem, ends in a koan. I desperately struggle
