Inside Out

Leaves are rising up into the maples and walnuts; my eyes are looking in at the emptiness. My brain is everywhere. I see exposed nerve endings, arteries outside; skin, smooth and freckled within. It is yet another Epiphany, a penis that points to nothing, and a tongue that licks silence. Too much information. I try to light my cigar; my hands, bones; my lips, quivering bundles. The creatures from next door toddle over with a bottle of the finest bourbon. We celebrate diverse and noble themes.

It is so hard to hold this pen, this cigar, this drink. But as the dachshund seeks to mate with the cat, and the clouds bleed glorious tones, I come to think of the surrealists, who contorted objects at no risk. If they had seen the white wall of the garage across the alley, the trees blowing the wind, the peace of the vacuumed spirit, and how now, it is cold, very cold, then they would have known; it is inside out. Have you ever seen a lower intestine in the moonlight? A severed head? Blood on a windshield? It is the work of cats.

A dark sun rises in the morning, and I begin to sleep.