Bore Into A Man Unshorn

As our history
is increasingly
disinterred,
the dirt piled
and the bodies
laid out and
catalogued,
we learn that
the bandages
were only
wrapped so
thin, to keep
moisture out,
but all they have
done in time
is soaked
everything up
and kept it off
the skin of our
deceased language,
dangling by a tissue
the meaning we
ascribe to each
inflection, each
word we carelessly
toss at each other.
It is so dried up
and brittle.

When those bandages
finally meet the air
again, we tremble,
we drown
and we beg for
the mercy of a
god we've never
seen. We beg
because god
makes sense in
situations like that
and because we
have such little
dignity,
such a putrid
sense of
propriety.

Put me back
in the ground.
Burn me up.
Send me away
for a fucking life
sentence.

You cannot
understand what
I'm talking to you
because my lungs
do not breathe air
like yours do.
My eyes do not
see color.
All I have is a
walking stick
to tick and tick
and poke around with
so I don't run
into anything else,
so I can swing
at the bastards who
come along trying
to steal the only food I've got.

Only prophets
walk these roads anymore.
Men who haven't
a clue why they
can't see anymore.
Men waiting for
the end.
I will dig you
another grave, if you'll
put me in it too.