ground oil

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I roll his arm in my hand eying the black spindle. I reach with my other hand and touch it lightly...



I’m a black mist I’m a dark water.
Caves of blurring smoke, a film on my eyes, a cold of day
a feeling of everything.

The spine is traveling through my mind, spreading black dust as it stirs up its words, without a mouth uncaught by my ears.

Hold your hand, don't lift yours from mine.
Your companion is my rider
a carrier as he is in broken skin
abrupt.

With shock my eyes clear and I see the sun again, sun lit earthly. Canvas on the floor. My companion is laying in the dirt, his hand forced deep in it. I struggle to turn him over, only to see the sun light off on his open mouth, dried saliva and grains of sand. I pull his dead hand from the earth. Clasped in it is a jar of mango-colored oblong fruits covered in small black grains.
“for our lord, the mud” I break the jar over Michael's head. The spray of glass falls over his face and I bask in its solar reflections, awaiting the opening of his blood onto the ground. Mud drinks heavily from Michael, seeping the area around the boys face in maroon paste. I widen my mouth and point my snout to the sky. My wail is heard by the desert rocks. My cry is for mud, my mud. Michael in the earth. Mud on my house.

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from underneath a Stream, released September 17, 2012

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