heights...

it is an ebony slate so
you cannot write upon it—
nor can you erase what is written;
on it you either posture like a corpse,
or you slide off slowly with your knees
unlocked to absorb the shock
of dead eyes staring through me….

but i am careful now, alone here
where no visitors come…
in the morning the slate hardens
into memory with echoes the texture
of steel wool…
the hand that offers me my pain
builds my walls with it…
the slate is my floor…
i keep it polished with sighs
that are educated and disciplined….

in the afternoon someone drenches me
with a bucket of blood;
my words run together in it and
the floor becomes deadly.
the blood is my own, of course;
it spills over the edge and soaks
clean walls beneath me…
they throw it back to me
when they have had enough…

in the evening after the sun has fried
cells of longing, it flips
onto its back and slips away…
now i am cold, like a dead
satellite…i crawl on my knees feeling
for the edge;
i am alert; i cannot sleep afraid to dream
of flying for
my life is braille…

I recall that once someone was here with me;
i still hear the echoes of his screams
as he fell…i think he tripped
on my words…

heights...

soliloquies
ja allen