I am my own weapon. Everything around me becomes a tool for heat, sharp points of metal call me by name. Fighting down this hate in me, I sit, drink coffee, and smoke cigarettes to calm my nerves. I am testy, but play nice on tv. (Secretly I thank the gods I am not on television.)
The bottom line the real bottom line is a movable intangible shadow that larks about and shifts into out of focus. It is in this shape shifting that I recognize myself without form. It is the form I despise.
There it is across wet concrete across rain streaked mirrors along the weathered cedar barn door the forgotten remembrance of manifestation.
My super power ability to see in the dark and all that I can imagine is nothing compared to the ability to feel sound and express it physically.
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