Caramel Maroon - defining my self.

And so I begin…
My blue ballpoint pen rests uncomfortably upon the blue lined notebook paper. Its broken clip leaves a scar like a soldier’s shattered helmet. It cuts a cross, crucifying lines, point extruded, ready, quivering with every shallow breath and nervous shake of restless feet, betraying the throbbing in my left cheek that comes from holding tongue and thought in check. She sits, waiting for me to pick her up, pull sword from stone, and press into memory of forgotten trees. No ink will spill past that meatus today. I can no more be unfaithful to my muse as to myself.

“The pen that moves and the tongue that speaks, without examined piety, authors ruin.”
“Silence scribes those who suffer under institution’s indigent gaze into memory’s shadow.”

I am brown, and yellow and red, dirty proud blood – rhizome of memory of Eastern caravans and caravels – caramel maroon – residue of sugar’s ménage with fire, oil, and iron.

I, inheritor of dust and salt and coral fragment, scratch a comma in this world, by downing tool, leaving white gaping wound to ponder abscess of flesh’s future – abject history…