Journal 6 - Blood and Laughter

Blood is all around us. Seeping out into our nuptial
beds, standing in a bottle of fine red wine, covering
the names of books and the themes of our best songs;
it rests in the setting of the evening sun as it wipes
away the dreadful sins of another menstruating day – dry
scalps on covered hands. Blood is not haemoglobin or
plateletes. Writer's block is an African mask hanging
on the wall of a single broker, on the single wall
by itself. I don't want to write in women's
clothing depressed with the passing of our yellow
daze. Each tick before dawn I hear the wolves
moan on their personal cliffs a wailing mournful
tune to the bright dampened moon. The end of
the night is a sad time for them. And with
hanging eyelids heavy with last night's drink I
roll out of bed and put on some shorts. The
TV is barking at no one about new sales and lowest
prices. The days have ended that found ourselves
fat and jolly in our late afternoon happiness with
ice cream and watermelon keeping us occupied. Now
the time has come to eat with cornbread fingers and
gravyless biscuits while the water turns brown
in its chemical treatment plants failing with the
laughing economy. Laughter is a dream that fell apart
when the government tried to walk us to the tune of
freedom and protection. The dream has died with the
little pieces of teeth kicked in with a presidential
boot after offering his serpent wrapped hand. The
smile of the green serpent haunts me in my dreams
like an African dance of the dead. The dancing
should help the passage of time but the noon is
here. There is no more chance to kiss her now
than before. My breathing is heavy with wheezing
with the blood-dried baked snot and boogers in my
reddened nose. Everything is regurgitated from
yesterday's failures with the last ring of hope on
the teetering ladder falling over the emperor's mansion.
The sky is dark in the noontime meadows where
thunder is another word for day. A crying spell of
a tired and heartless earth.


2.6.09