the creeks don't all run in the same direction,
and the tiny boats... they sometimes sink
or find themselves caught in the thicket along the edge...
and children often lose their hats trying to fish them out
(or right them as the case may be).
they crawl through the thorns, careless of their finery and emerge on the other side, torn, bloodied, and forever dirtied at the knees from the act.

i found them there, these children.
like worms they crawl and writhe in my hands...
and with a quick flip of my wrist,
they fall down my throat to make friends with my own worms.
long forgotten, they live there still
twisting through my unconscious memory,
claiming their passageways,
becoming unapproachable gods.

[emerging from the muck, in his sailor's suit and hat, Emory Boardscrabble winks with the jest of a Little Rascal.
circles around both eyes like Petey in the funhouse. he speaks in some alien language that you're expected to understand, but don't. he smiles, assuming you've understood that his boat has sunk with all hands down. the captain has perished along with his mate, and the lifeboats have become bobbing delicacies for the dragons that own these waters...
you nod your head approvingly.]

you're new here i see." he says in a language familiar to you.
"your scales have not yet formed and your eyes... they're still blue.
surely the babes don't run headlong into this forest to dance with us cadavers..?
i expect you're the gift of a pixie,
or some lovely thing, dropped by a robber on his way with his cache..?"

but you turn away, distracted by the trash in the ditch.

stepping into a swirling oblivion and the gore that lives there,
you're confronted by an ages-old beer can...
it's tab long since lost...

"i've traveled far, and with my paint peeling and all...
could you show me to my place?
i mean... this is... The End, right?
i... i belong here amongst these cast-offs.
these... [gesturing]
the poison ivy and the styrofoam?
the cigarette cellophanes?
the spent diapers and the discarded brassieres?
the honeysuckle,
and the occasional half-bottle of Mad Dog?

my home is 'neath the dog-eared Playboy
'twixt the cardboard salt shakers?
the trinkets on the edge of the rabbit hole are shiny
but we all know they're a stop-and-glow billboard
heralding our demise.

we step carefully and follow the smell
of patient degradation
- the natural decay -
of the atoms that would define us.

'energy is a constant. it can be neither created nor destroyed'

...so we rot."

slowly, but without motion, the can fades into the clutter
the clamor and eye-clapping,
the colorous confusion
of the ad-campaigns fallen
to the orbit of the unnoticed.

melt...
[and we find the shapes of our spaces]

crumble...
[and take on the taste of the earth]

twist...
[and the physics gather 'round us]

fall...
[and the structure falls too]...

we feign the texture of the soil
and slip into it's depths
into the wormholes
into the thickets
to the edge of the water
where we find
that our boat has sunk.
the captain has perished with his mate
and our lifeboats have become bobbing delicacies
for the dragons.

EzekielWoods@gmail.com

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