The fur in the small brain curls
And twists and holds in a wrapped position.
The look down. The top of eyelids. The warmth of love.
There is a desire for running.
Run to the best but there is nothing to run to.
Nothing to run from because the fur will stick
With purple static.
Nothing to run from
In the rain-soaked, blacked-out jail.
Orange ceilings talk about holding still.
Floors knowing that there are no legs
With which to run.
Stuck in a dream.
The fur is itching the eyes and
There is no vision to behold life.
Hold still, the breath says.
Pull on the fur but there are no clumps.
There is no release.
Walk away and run to the park.
Can’t be alone in the park.
Need the dirty restlessness of the park.
Need the freedom.
But the rusty fur won’t stand for the park.
Matted with the fur
And it holds on like a cold, wet wool blanket.
Cannot run to and cannot run from.
Come pull toward the skies.
Pull the fur away in the wind
Fly in the wind.
Land and never lose the blasting static.
At the landing, no fur, no sewage.
No longer need to run.
At the landing, there is freedom.
It is peaceful to wear a blanket.
We can lie silently.
We feel each other’s inner furnace
And we are covered with a sweet fragrance.
But now, I cannot fly and I am stuck with my fur.
It falls out in clumps but it sticks to me like tar.
I bathe in tar and I know that it is real
That I will never run from this swamp
And there will never be anything to run to.
Love is the only thing,
But I am doomed to this rudimentary life
Of putting things together
When I have never been able
To fix one small thing.
I wonder if I can pull
And drown in my tar with fur shaking.