Self Portraits

The truck never stopped. Neither did I. Collision is a necessary experience for bone and tissue to mature. It must be broken. To trust that it can mend. It must be torn to know that it can stretch. Only so far.

The hours were small. With bitter men. On their way to times they never could imagine would greet them. Punctured tires still spinning strong on axles long since separated from their chassis. Numbers caught in algebraic storms not soon to be solved.

I said go with me. We can find it there. In vagrant flesh that doesn't care what gods we beg. I admitted that I was going nowhere. And posited that he followed the same map.

I said take my clothes off. Challenge me to be this skin. This paradise of cells that threatens to drown my thoughts. Needs your serpent. Are only a weight upon my bones without this temptation.

These rough pastels. Of scratch and semen. Are the only art this fragile canvas can hold.