cats eat catfood
My fingers used to be long- and straight,
now they are knotted and crooked.
Scars from cat claws and broken joints never thought to set right.
I don’t fight, I drink and these hands show the truth.
Knuckles remain proud, defiant mountains on a dusty landscape crossed with dirt roads on the back of my hand. Red clay steppes terraced with light imperfections. Half-hearted attempts to leave impressions. On walls, on myself, but never others.
I never see the point-
I see the edge, it stumbles around on heavy steps, a bad drunk looking for a way into the conversation. I see, so the edge sees me, maybe out of curiosity, probably just my ego, because I’m drunk too. Maybe I’m an amusement, a big eyed mouse in a game with a cat I can’t see. Because when the edge did come close, I never even saw him. He left a mark on a friend close by and laughed as he slipped away into a gin tinted black memory and sped off into that night.
Or escaped in the grey haze of morning, either way, I was later told, the edge was a light breath’s distance from my ear and I never saw the smile.
Other than that, we are always in the same places. And I nod from across the room. Others raise their glasses and I smile at them, but the edge knows I’m watching, laughs hard through the nose and moves into the shadows.
Sometimes when it gets way out there, we dance together. Not so much anymore, but familiar steps come back so easily.
Just when i think im almost there, i realize that there doesnt exist, just like here. So I stop. Then I listen. And I hear. And I start walking again.
now they are knotted and crooked.
Scars from cat claws and broken joints never thought to set right.
I don’t fight, I drink and these hands show the truth.
Knuckles remain proud, defiant mountains on a dusty landscape crossed with dirt roads on the back of my hand. Red clay steppes terraced with light imperfections. Half-hearted attempts to leave impressions. On walls, on myself, but never others.
I never see the point-
I see the edge, it stumbles around on heavy steps, a bad drunk looking for a way into the conversation. I see, so the edge sees me, maybe out of curiosity, probably just my ego, because I’m drunk too. Maybe I’m an amusement, a big eyed mouse in a game with a cat I can’t see. Because when the edge did come close, I never even saw him. He left a mark on a friend close by and laughed as he slipped away into a gin tinted black memory and sped off into that night.
Or escaped in the grey haze of morning, either way, I was later told, the edge was a light breath’s distance from my ear and I never saw the smile.
Other than that, we are always in the same places. And I nod from across the room. Others raise their glasses and I smile at them, but the edge knows I’m watching, laughs hard through the nose and moves into the shadows.
Sometimes when it gets way out there, we dance together. Not so much anymore, but familiar steps come back so easily.
Just when i think im almost there, i realize that there doesnt exist, just like here. So I stop. Then I listen. And I hear. And I start walking again.
posted by Salaam Infinite at 10:08 PM
1 Comments:
Since you mentioned hands....
Rivers
There were rivers in my hands
of life that
flowed continuously
rivers of blood
that
held
me
bound me
to what was
streams
of conciousness
that lifted me
high
trickles of
madness
calling me home
where these hands
first held
at the beginnings of time
then chafed
the cracked
and split
until those
rivers
ran red
There are rivers in my hands
the fueled
the fire burn
baby burn
and there were rivers
that could
not wash away
the smell
of inequity
in my cell
of injustice
yet those rivers
still carry on
in my hands
and promise to lead
back to what was
and always shall be.
C.Steven
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