George writes:
My finger and toenails are pried off and the soft flesh that is used to the protection of the nail shells is exposed and open to the air. They are pried off with a sharpened pencil that digs into that soft flesh. Each is done one at a time. Slowly. The nails bend and shatter and that soft, soft finger and toe flesh is out in the open where it isn’t used to being and then something is there and it has a voice and I’m not sure if it is really happening or if it is a dream and I can’t move. I can’t move and my nails both toes and fingers are missing and that soft flesh is seeing the world and feeling the air for the first time. My insides are out in a simple simple way. And I want to scream but if I scream the something will know I’m there and I can’t move and my nails or my lack of nails are hurting and then my head is gone. I am not with my head. I am out in the field and I am still reeling from the lose of my toe and finger nails and the dirt is hurting the soft flesh that is exposed. And the dirt is salty. And it burns. It burns without any heat. It is a heatless burning. And the blankets are over my head and I can’t breathe. And this is turning me into a small and smaller thing that the big thing has cornered. And I can’t move. Continue reading
I dream of dada 