This time, it's personal.

I've been sitting here naked for awhile. I just can't seem to get up and put some clothes on. My nipples are getting hard and the door is partially open from my cat nonchalantly walking into my room without shutting the door. Asshole. But I smell his head and I'm not mad at him anymore. I can tell he's been messing with the plug-in air freshener, because that is what he smells like. Hawaiian breeze. How can someone even capture that scent? I'm hungry, but I don't feel like eating. I haven't felt this peppy in awhile. It's odd. Well, for me anyway- at this moment in my life. I used to be that way in my younger years, but things change and you learn things and experience new shit and whatnot. I'm hungry, but I don't want to eat. I might be schizophrenic, and you might be too. Let's just say that even though I don't really want to, I think I will smoke- Just so that I will get hungry and silly enough to shamelessly poor a heaping bowl of cereal at 12 in the ay em. 

So, I decided to put some clothes on. It is just way too cold in here and my nipples were beginning to slice into a whole other dimension- it was crazy. Like some Subtle Knife shit (by Philip Pullman). And, yes, I've decided to smoke a bit just to help me sleep. I'd rather inhale than swallow some pill. Well here we go- get the keys, open the box, take out the shit, sprinkle it in the bowl, and light. Now inhale, that's it. Pull up on the stem and suck. Listen to the bubbling- fast and hard. Like a gurgling sound, but it doesn't make you sick to hear it. This is the last bit I get for awhile until I get back from London and find a job. So, savor it. Or just appreciate it at least. Just fucking enjoy yourself. Bob Marley is etched on the side and I don't particularly like it, once I get to thinking about it. But, it's easy to forget and get used to. You can feel the difference; first you're touching smooth glass, then you move your hand down to thin, grainy lines- Bob Marley posed with a guitar and a microphone, but you can't really tell unless you hold it out a bit in front of you and turn it due to its cylindrical shape.
I miss you, my Zebra, so far up North. Soon I shall be there as well. If my life were a play, would it be a Tragedy? If it were, who/what would be the audience. I keep staring at my tattoo. I can't stop won't stop. Until I drop. Shop. Flop. Cops! -I almost got into it big time with them the other day. Sly shooting, fox. We got away that time!- Well, because they let us go. A fox caught in a snare set free by a hunter. Paradox. Share an ox. --I think it got wet a bit. It's sizzling and hissing at me. It looks wet. Better wait 'til it dries. Or not.
Now. Now, I am ready to slumber.

Buzz, Fuzz, and Fog.

I hate how she still makes my skin prickle; my brain buzzes around like hornets in a nest that's swinging to and fro, wildly at the stem. My limbs always take to shaking like that. A leash to my brain, and I can't even find the collar. It's probably spiked, and you've gotten so used to its presence that you hardly know it's there. I'm tired, even though I just woke up. I seek solace in dreams but usually I can just stall time for awhile, awakening with bad bubbling ulcers in my belly, or fuzz behind my eyes. Chief seemed to be okay with drifting in the fog. I can too, but the buzzing in my head won't let me appreciate it. Perhaps the collar tightens when the fog rolls in. All the small loopy words I wrote, neat and tightly as if to hide from a watching eye are still etched in my mind. Time passes and I still want them to dance from the page around me, congratulating me on my success. "You did it! Now let's get this mess cleaned up, we've got a big day ahead of us!" But I know, my conscious would be troubled forever, and then once again she holds that leash, strapped to her camera, and she yanks me around each time she finds something worth capturing. With a flash. Hot flash of white and my knees buckle. I can slam my hand into you, but you're already too far away. I am Chief, but he was always bigger than me. He got away. I didn't. Will I ever? I always tend to bathe in the waters that I wish to forget. 

Take

Keep your god damn fingers to yourself.

An outstretched palm laying on parchment that's curling around the edges.

Each fingertip touching a different nation. 

You can't claim those.

She strokes the cat sitting in her lap purring.

She can feel the rumbles, soft and deep.

Lapping at the waters; the palm moves across vast oceans and brackish lakes.

The trees shook under the motion and hurricanes began to form.

The hand's mouth speaks of love and guidance.

Guidance, it says, we are obligated to show guidance; it is our duty as highly developed beings.

The fingers lay stretched out and snaking over flat imitations of real things.

The hands are many and almost a blur as they flash around, back and forth like honey bees as they tend to flowers.

Working as bees do.

An intricate design of lines and uniformed figures all lining up under a spot light.

It's your turn. 

You need guidance, my child. Except it or die.

And you except it as you try to hold a heavy fingertip over you and your family, over your pride and your accomplishments, over your roots and garden. 

Roots that shoot out from the ground, lying dormant, awaiting the right moment to spring upon the earth and claim its top soil.

The hands peel like bark does, leak sap, and absorb liquids.

The hands are too heavy and the sleek oak table splinters under the weight and groans.

Sagging wood, leaking nothing. Empty whispers that only a baby can hear or someone with dementia. 

I've swam in that lake a thousand times, and I-

-well I've never once drowned.