Scarred by ice

— how memory makes us —

Also, now, I hear the mountains spring on their way back to the sea. They look up and down wander all over me, brown-blue birds slide across the sky, you & I are the weavers of water we have the H2O. Fish screech to taste their consumption of water in any old order of merit and the water is in their tears. And their fears over wars over water profound. Countries grab water, squabble for the rivers of Jordan. I listen to the laplap lapping of the weedy Bure and I am no longer firstly or secondly tonight. I speak, weep sadly with song, with whiskey and with my sadness getting me nowhere my heart slows.

Arrhythmia the doctors say. This DrinKing water has passed through eleven bodies before it hits mine. That’s fine, by me. Water is peeled of all impurity. My glass of solid water. My feet draw patterns on the dry floor. Solid water becomes buttons to undress you and your slip-shod shoes are thrown anyfuckinwhere polished up by water into patent leather wonders. A ticket for la bus is all you need to escape the smoke from cigarettes or weed. Easily doused with water. Sweet grapes attract the palate. We must wait for significance to grow like a vine. Others sell flowers outside graveyards and can still muster a vote at election time, outside, a chapel of dark jerusalem vines haunt my very being. C’est la vie, huh?