The Spoke of Gut

Calm. Infinite roads stretch from an epicenter of the mind. Eloquent blues paint around the hills. A soft wind plays around cheekbones, plays inside cavities, plays inside nasal tunnels, plays inside thoughts. Above, the stars no longer wheel. Halted, they asphyxiate on a single spoke, a nail driven into the sky. Rust is the color of the nail. Rust, is the color. The prairie is littered with shells, hollowed out memories of words, hollowed in threads of purpose, hallowed potsherds of forgotten empires of intention. From the belly of the land, from the place where emotion flows into supposition, supposition into action, action into denial, denial into misery, misery into the belly of the land, rises the nail, the rusted nail.

Across it, a figure of me runs. Into the sky, on a stellar highway of rust, on the smell of blood forgotten, on the tinge of iron, on the spoke of gut, a figure of me runs. To where, I do not know. Discarded, still while the figure runs, I lie. All porcelain now forgotten, all swords now shattered, all cords now furled inside. The joints of my hands are white, not from struggle, but from the faint light that is released from halted stars. They shine brighter for having stopped. They shine brighter for the rust. The figure of me is dull, shadowed, leeched of light, or love, or darkness.

This used to be void. I was scared then, but I knew nothing. I invited the nail, the raising of the monument. I imagined myself chased while I was being welcomed, thought myself a silence when I was noise, created myself a portrait when I was a landscape. Now, I am still left with the same tools but the intentions slowly shift. I lie, still. Halted, I can release. Like the stars, I shine brighter for having stopped. The fire is still but more potent, searing the insides of me, the rusted insides of me. And I can't stop. Can't stop burning.

And so, instead of water I yearn for fuel. And so, instead of release, I climb the nail. Balancing the edge, eating the border, masking the defeat, I run towards the stars. Still behind me, runs the cord, the tether, the anchor. I feel it but do not see, find it where it did not hide. Ignoring it, I run. The stars are porcelain, the sword, the rust, the highway to themselves. The highway towards me. The tether tugs. It grows tight. I am halted, violently, falling to my knees. I grip the nail with my hands, grip my hands with my pride and tear.

I hold a sliver of rust in my hands. I turn. I strike. I cut.

I. Release the tether. I. Strike the cord. I. End the silence.

I trust. The dark.

I breathe.


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