sun day

history of black branches coming out of faces
winter tree people perhaps, or post-holocaust humans
antelope kind, wooden tentacle kind, shamanistic
 
i’m sent through all these landscapes
desolate, endless
but i remember nothing else
just a numb arm upon waking
sheets cast off the sofa bed,
leather exposed to my sweat skin
and sun
 
i know its the same sun everywhere
despite our conditions (living, dreaming, death transitioning, in the past or future)
i know it’s the one sun with its mind extended everywhere, our way marker, our point of reference, a singular face for multiple paths
consider what it sees and remembers
the phases of human consciousness
lighting awareness
age by age
 
there’s a dog in my face
tongue on my fingers
big eyes peering into deep souls
asking to go out, needing to pee
 
he also wants bread, not chicken
 
i’m eating oats with a memory of war time
the house is empty
I commune with mynah birds, rattling in the kitchen
my flighty familiars, not as mysterious and gothic like ravens
but still otherworldly with their yellow beaks and coded singing and mad staring eyes
stealing bones from the dustbin, carrying the dead under their wings
 
the dog wants to walk far
crossing roads to coffeeshops
looking for pastry in the dirt
looking for horny bitches on leashes (just like his master)
we both find none.
 
we wait for the woman in the wheel chair
he wants to be carried, like a baby
I’m looking for toys like a child
we deal with ruthless sun, the correspondences of soil and roots and passing cars
metal turning hot with noon heat
burning my clothes as I clean up the dog after his shit
 
the wheelchair woman returns
 
she has food
 
he still doesn’t want chicken. only sleep.
I eat noodles and calcium pills and smoke indonesian cloves
then contemplate the history of black branches, coming out of faces
reaching out to touch the rays from the ventricles of my sun
 
 
#irvingpaulpereira
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