a little poetry
courage / mother.
Courage, mother. The bombs are falling. I can't help the long arms of my life, the long reach of my limbs. I am dropping bombs on you, courage. It's like that dream where I have a fever and my fingers are thick, so clumsy that I break what I touch, and I can't pick anything up without knocking it down. Out in the fields killing on accident, like the original Monster. It's like that fever where I have a dream and the corner of the room is so damn far away, and the walls are vibrating with sickness, and I can't control myself to adjust the wool of the blanket where it's rubbing against my skin. Courage, mother. I have to go out for a while. I have to steal and hide and live, I have to go out there. It's the only way I can learn to control my arms, they've gone insane, they've joined the arms race and they're killing, killing, killing, out in the fields. Courage mother, I have to go, maybe I'll be back one day, I hope, healthier and less deadly. We have to find my courage, mother. We have to go. We have to find the habit and the ease, the courage of our convictions, and of those who taught us our convictions. We have to find the courage of our mothers. They are pushing shopping carts down 14th Street where no one gives you any change. Courage, mother, courage.
