They sat in the middle of the field, leaned against a fallen tree, vapor rising from their somnambulators.
Their eyes were gone under their shades. They had traded them to the grinning birds as a bribe, not knowing that their beaks were formed that way when the hurricane ripped them from the wind.
The grins never stopped, but they could no longer tell. They walked now in circles, widdershins, and pointed their snoring noses upright. They would see now with dream rods and nightmare cones. The sky and the ground equated.
The field crawled with life, but their boots kept it from them. Their ears were stuffed with cattails. They did not want to awaken. They did not want to sense the grins still on the beaks of the birds that took their vision.
They would walk in circles until they dug graves with their steps. Softly, they would lie down and let the sun suck the blood from their backs. Berries would grow in their corpse dirt and the birds would eat these as well, unsated.
Sat stumped, wind down my legs. Birds coded hallucinations in intricate song, one tweeting sideways while another ate bugs to scales unknown to earth ears. What, sweat like black blood wipes clear? I thought I’d cut my pineal gland out with a sharpened deer antler earlier to help me sleep, but I must have missed and lobotomized myself. No matter. The stump knows gravity, I know the stump. This is why I come here to these wet woods. Beauty wrapped in death linens, mind gone with the morning rain. When they find me, my hands will have rotted off from exposed prayers to the dark unknown green beyond the edge of my failing vision.
My only hope is that a family of birds make love in my chest to keep my heart company.
I walked lazily through the field with my shadow brothers and my stick, counting the colors of the flowering weeds.
Birds told me news I didn’t feel like hearing, so I shot them with rocks as they sang and they shut their beaks up in fear. I would have peace today. I would have air and exercise. Their indecipherable songs, weaving in and out of the leaves, notes striving for dark bird meat, merely stirred up my brain and cock alike. I would have a quiet body today.
The frogs knew better than to croak. They could taste mammal anger with their bubblegum tongues and would save their croaking for their underwater caves.
A bee buzzed by and my shadow brothers touched it with a cold finger and it fell in the dirt to dance no more. I could barely hear its venom crying out for activity, but could feel the ground vibrate with anticipation. New dust for the mud machine. New death for the soil.
To think that death is silence is to forget we feel the grass growing through us, sawing at our bits like a crazed violinist, unceasing but when it freezes.
For me, the water dripping from the rocks after a morning mist has risen over the ridge, warmed by the Sun as he awakens Earth with a radiated roar, feels like drugs to the head every time I crawl and lick around. I feel it first in the back of my throat, the breath of gods gathering in my lungs. My eyes will not open to profane this moment. My tongues goes numb with the deep coldness of the granite from which I cannot peel away. Not yet. Not until my legs fill with blood-fire. Not until I can summit the Throne of the Old One and knock to see if I might borrow a cup of sugar to bake a cake for the celebration of the crumbling of consensual reality.
But no one will come.