Jewellike
made of dirt
The sidewalks here are made of dirt. Black coils of wire hang from poles like hoops for the games of Mayan gods. Madness stalks the airwaves. They call themselves people. They're really just animals. Walking among them is torture, like being surrounded by ants crawling on every inch of your naked skin. The word for that is formication, which sounds obscene because it is. They fly flags. They fly into buildings. They break things that aren't theirs. They write on walls that aren't even theirs. Method rules the airwaves. They revere striped cloths. They fly flags into buildings. They hang coils of wire from poles. They make sidewalks out of dirt. They don't even expect them to move. Their ears are useless. They're making too much noise to hear even while they ask for help. They call on the invisible and trip over roots and cracks that anyone could see. They make mice that glow, then bite their heads off and sit in the dark. They fly flags into buildings. They fly into buildings and into caves. They hang from poles. They hang from poles like coils of wire, like strips of cloth. Like flags without a breeze. They dance around for awhile and then lie limp in the dirt. They are made of dirt. They lie in the dirt forever. Some of them lie sooner than others. Some of them lie all the time. Some of them are lying now.
—11/10/2001, 9/10/2023
©2001, 2023 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated September 10, 2023
Contact me:
ascott@pacifier.com