Tuesday, October 07, 2014


Chisos Mountains, Woody Hibbard

It’s stuck in my throat, this choking howl, these rales
rasping on what I’ve swallowed: bezoar of boiled wool
from a too-tight jacket I gnawed off, three fingernails
that broke ragged as I scratched under a fence. Fool,
me, trying to pass as “company.” Semi-feral, wilding
under the thinnest crust of a dinnertime smile: load
me up, I’ll spit out this hairball of restraint, upchuck
all ties. Which fork to use now? The one in the road.


Larry said...

This seems to describe a moment of severe cognitive dissonance, as the manners and etiquettes of the human and natural worlds collide.

am said...

Yep. Yes indeed. There is a new voice in these recent blog posts. With each post, I'm startled in a good way.

"... the road is unending ..."
-- Morton Marcus (1936-2009)

Lori Witzel said...

Nah, just cranky. I feel better now that I wrote it. :-)