Thoughts on Feathers

I like it

When the feathers poke out of the fabric on my pillow.

I pull them out, fluff them, and blow them into the air above my quiet face. This can go on for hours.

.

The trouble is that I need a belief in something outside myself to make atoms congeal. I need the comfort. I long for the ascent on a chariot of fire.

I prize the rising of my thoughts that float from the grayish mudanity that I paddle through to get to the supermarket and back. All the silver fish blow past me and scowl when I cross their path lost in a daydream. I can’t help but wonder if they have forgotten all about feathers, and the way they float.

.

However

What is the use in blood and marrow, when they can turn upon themselves, and send my granddad into the black water?

.

Why do I bother to exist?

For the world has no outlet that I can plug into. My heart’s phallus goes unmatched and lonely most days. I can’t seem to connect and the silver fishes are too busy having fake orgasms.

I walk into a park designed by a dead, white man. I find a tree and slide my knife into it until it bleeds sweet sap all over my hands. I kiss it and apologize. This will be the last time.