Non-Objective Impromptu

When will my ankle stop killing? It’s been four fuck months now and the silk of it is wearing off. I doubt it’s due to pressure the red cold cracking. It’s Tuesday morning in Antarctica and a round one at that. The ice shelves thrusting and crunching against the arm of the ocean like a field of stairs. Earthquakes shatter the Pacific and constitute mountains in autumn with eggs milk and flour. I’m shivering in my sweatshirt wrapped in hysteria my worries my own personal strife. What matters. Asia is alone spooning its disease with a spatula from the pavement. Mars is a speeding salmon eating mouth open the cosmos. He’s playing the violin and wearing a mustache, acting like he’s Elmer Fudd, swearing French beans over all the other paperweight magicians. Touch me. I stand in a field of snow strapped to skis and it’s the glory of lion-scented manure rising on the California tide. I want to run run run run through silk yards to yonder mountain string band, hit up Wyoming and Paris on the way. Mom will you hold off on the starvation and smog? Abigail keeps getting forgotten between tangy branches at four pm. I’m tired of standing limping crutching into your arms and my stomach is making horrible noises, asparagus sounds. You’d think I’d have eaten something non-objective, some Pollock-painted soccer match, could you hand me a Kleenex? Maybe it’s the worry. I need Kerouac I need to be on the road the smooth stretched out no worry turtle because you can’t do nothing but keep goin.’ I’ve gotta go this one alone. The smell of shit snaps me back into focus like that tree down by the river, she’s frozen brittle white mist from the fall. The ‘dacks leaning and peering over each other’s shoulders. Do you think you’re so important? You talk real big California style in front of a crowd. The lion tamer. You crack the whip and slide down the spinal staircase of my throat to land like chocolate on my heart. And the violin plays that sweet sweet song. No more anger. I’m tired of bunching all of the feeling in me like a diseased hairball. Cough it up. Away with Paris and its cigarette smog and city lights. To New Zealand now. To sharpness of mountains booming coastlines and grandeur. I want to feel your touch and remain honest. No more soul-starvation but don’t be such a gluttonous feeler, searching consuming experience. Calm breath. Live in that beautiful foreign red woodpeckers head. Don’t drive so fast. Plums now. Not so cosmic. Live in the carrot the celery. The life of Andy Goldsworthy—make a beautiful moment out of ice then let it melt. Will I ever be satisfied?