Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Indiana's Summer Sun

Indiana’s Summer Sun

I have no idea how I split my head open tonight. It is bleeding. The crimson fluid bubbled and squirted like hot springs on a misty Arkansas evening in May. The gaping wound felt as if it was the consequence of a razorback’s thrashing. Deep penetration in the head was the only proof I had.
My bedding was the carpeted floor of someone’s library. The covering’s color was close to that of a fake pearl. Cold, plastic molded to the liking of children and pretenders. They were made to hang there like popcorn drooping from a plastic Christmas tree. Swaying like neglected power lines in forgotten townships and farming communities.
I try to sit up but it I end up sideways at the waist and slump over causing my head wound to release nutrients on the floor’s fibers. The carpet and padding morphs into a sponge after a forceful thrusting and the release of screams, hard breathing, sighs and weeping. Hard pounding inside the skull pushes blood downward like an upside-down volcano. The carpet greedily sucks the blood and tears from my head. It wants to be me.
Parts of my face are tattooed pink from sweat and blood. My shoulders and feet are pink from Indiana’s summer sun. The hair on my head that wasn’t detasseled solidified rustled. A piece of my scalp melted to the carpet. Purple hair enchanted the library’s air and two purring cats.
A gray tiger and a tortoise shell fought for my flesh and blood. The tiger yanked at the evidence on the carpet with small fangs. The tortoise shell hissed at me from
behind a smoke bomb and scratched my ring finger. Where’s Ted Nugent when you need him?
My vision seems cursed. Milk fills my eyes. The cats want that now, too. Lapping the organic milk might tame the feral creatures’ bestial cravings. The gray tiger springs to the top a filing cabinet and licks the top of it. The tortoise shell laughs or sneezes and falls off an upright bass leaning in the far corner of the library. Their viciousness is not yet known. Nor is there intrusive nature, for that matter. I’d have figured them to be quick opportunists running over themselves in order to feed wholesomely on the flesh of mankind.
I looked over at blue and tan flannel shirt resting on a rocking chair and wanted to be wrapped in it. It’s warmth accompanying me with each rock. Back-and-forth like fetal infants gnawing at unknown mothers’ umbilical cords. Breast milk rising from shock and gasoline. Nine lives? How about just this one?


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