you start to wonder
at what point you should stop imitating them.
( Collapse )
9 October 1940 - 8 December 1980
Love, peace, light.
I'll miss you always.
Ask the boy about his disfigured youth.
About which direction the wind was blowing the day his nonage ended,
unaware of the arachnid sac that had fallen into his picnic lunch.
He birthed infant spiders from his nostrils, from his mouth;
eight thousand translucent legs hinging over his jutting lower lip,
stroking salt water rivers carved into ruddy cheeks.
Eight thousand obsidian spherules blinded by panicked shrieks,
flaccid fangs yawning wide to hiss an answer.
Limpid, laughing cephalothoraxes bound his head in diaphanous silk,
they took first flight and left a legacy of somniloquy, of gulping affliction,
of classified truths shouted in his sleep.
Ask about gasping awake with his face etched by symmetry,
nails plugged with sweat-salt skin,
eight thousand red platelets staining his pillow.