Thursday, February 17, 2011

The Runners

My friends are runners. Their muscles are like the maroon currents of a muddy river taking them straight into the circumference of our city which is the eyeball of spotted cow that will soon go to slaughter. You must water the eyeball like it’s a seed. That’s the only way to keep it alive. When you do, it will turn blue and gray and swim from you like a small fish.

Our little city.

It will not obey anyone. In that, it’s like a runner or a friend giving you advice that you turn into a strange massage. Don’t worry, it’s not sexual. There’s a garden of statues in the middle of our city and if you kneel down before the tallest one, an angry man carrying a bag of marble fish, and look into his stone eyes, I think you will learn one of the secrets of the universe—

Sometimes they run under the torn moon
like their world is something that they are going to leave tonight.
They want me to go with them, but I am not an angry man carrying a bag of marble fish.

How will I excuse myself from their dinner table? I don’t want to eat their porcelain cow eye even though it is blue and pretty and there are mini rainbows coming out of it like this is a breakfast cereal.

They run so fast; there’s just no way I can keep up with them.

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