I need to write to outrun hungry demons, to build a new me to replace the old. I need to tear down stone walls of resistance, escape anchor blocks dragging in sand of man-entropy, gravity molding me in the murky bottom. Subliminal fractures reshape my structures into a me I schemed to avoid—ruptures of who I came to be ripping through calloused skin. The demons chase this fast-talking slow-walking man, eat the cheesiness of his nightstand. My minds slip out of sight like aces sliding from a sleeve. I need to piece together a paradox, a slipperiness, masked confusion—one person out of many impossibilities. One person with so many masks. One mask for so many personae. I need to write me, to replace as soon as I can demons outrunning my old-man’s soul. Building, building, building, until I understand that humanity lies in the earth below the bull’s bellow—so only my own tongue speaks, no other.
©2021 Michael Dickel
All rights reserved