Thursday, June 10, 2010

A Gemini nightmare, careening through the clouds toward a door in the West, where I met my ancestors and offered them a rubber bone. It was all I brought with me from where I was, sitting in someone's backyard for seven years. I had stolen a pebble a day from the neighbors, had made something that almost resembled a mountain until I smashed it.

They didn't want my bone, but pointed to the East and shook their heads, walking away. I opened the door and understood but went in, throwing my bone on the ground so I could have both hands free. But there wasn't anything there anyway, just darkness and shale. Over time my eyes became unaccustomed to light, and I lost them. Saint Anthony, I prayed, Come and find me. But he didn't, and I stayed there, pilfering shale from no one until I had another mountain. A Gemini daydream, translucent and becoming, lost in the chaos of reproduction. Some of us were never meant to find our way.

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