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Another handroll on the back porch.
Tall grass that looks and scratches suspiciously like wheat crawls up my bare ankle, as a pup once named damn it strolls the lawn bounding and pouncing on imagined terrors, and rolling with her eyes in the back of her head and her tongue flopped out one side like something possessed
I listen to the chirp of dawn birds, the crackle of the sedimented cartlidge in my hands and arm.
As I rub that dullness akin to petrification I follow another line, a new sinew trapsing off into a faded lightning bolt
tributaries of puffed pink flesh firm and numb
what a peculiar weave of scars my body has become.
Like a roadmap of car crashes, tumbles, brawls and falls.
Strange that such a cautious and devout pacifist can trace so many streams and trickles of a desperately violent past.
I'm suddenly very tired... and very aware of how deliberately timid I have become.
Perhaps too soon, perhaps for the right reasons.
Its like... putting a muzzle on a flamethrower.
Its still a weapon.
I am still anger,
but I am trying very hard to be the right.
Perhaps only briefly.
The smoke stopped, my fingers are warm...
Was anyone hurt while I was gone?
