His soul made him uncomfortable
It looked like an inside-turned-out dull black umbrella
It wasnt talking to him
a discursive
pantomime perhaps
implying his inherent worthlessness
threatening collapse
thin-ribbed
fragile
without joy for rain
or pity for
him
It was yanked free of his
body
drawn on a shiny black wire into the bare stick treetops across the
cobblestone street he stood at
and perched there like a scrawny bird
turning slowly
espying him with red irritated eyes
with his soul outside him he
thought he must surely be dead
but he could thrust his arms
before himself
wiggle his fingers amicably
Hell inside his shoes he could wiggle his piggies
to the music wafting out of some unseen window as someone inside breakfasted on
scrambled eggs spinach ah smells like cheese and ah
dark rye toast
Wheres the
jelly or preserves
would a dead person trouble
himself with arms legs music and someone elses breakfast
he might
might not
whats dead
anywaysa state of mind
unminded
he thought
Why wasnt he distraught
but then he thought
Dead doesnt
think
Did it
he didnt think so
not before
Before
How novel
Before Now After
footprints in
the sand tracks in the snow
a process a procession
nobody
really knew
no
one he knew ever divulged experiential knowledge of Death
his soul
in the bare
stick tree
yawned
he couldnt make out Its face to
determine if It was tired
or bored
or
even if It politely covered Its maw with Its hand
but then It wasnt built like him
It wasnt homo-ified
It looked like an illicit
derelict shabby
if he wasnt going to look like
himself after he died he wouldnt have ever assumed this not in thousands of years
of guessing but maybe in the professed
Eternity a Time Warp Wormhole
Maybe
maybe if he were petty or what
was that thing he could never wrap his head around --
vain -- yes vain
-- if he were vain hed be awful
upset by his Hereafter -- its shrill representation
a
sterile umbrella
up
there in a stick tree
he had arguments with his shadow
and It walked off on him to let him really think about how he was acting and even then he wasnt sure who was more
immaterial in the meantime
him without or It without him
they were both vaguer without the
other
and cooled off
theyd reunite
after
dancing and parrying a tad bit more
then apologizing
but this was different
latent pedantically pedestrian
it occurred to him they were
alright
apparently one didnt need the
other
and
vice versa
he looked down at his feet
they shifted impatiently
they shifted impatiently
scuffing
their leather soles
he was done waiting
he was alive and kicking
his soul ruffled Its
water-resistant nylon skeins
-- AT HIM --
ruffled
his stuff at him
Whaddahell
so
he ruffled his stuff right back at him
at It
It separate
couldnt or probably wasnt a him any more
how to sex a soul
not his problem
freed he walked
away unencumbered refreshed
0900, Seattle Monday, 23 3.
15
