Lying upon an acre of glass, I am sick ofhearing them bang their crucifixesagainst the bullet-proof surface.
Their tongues want my entropy.
I sit up and look at the underworld.Beneath the glass, twisted blue facescurse my name and lick their barriers. Iwant out.
The landscape was drearywith some unaccounted for murk. It wasreally stupid after all of this gray time.Somehow I’ve braided all mycircumstances together and each grainof wasted sand is a redundant emblemof my headache. Sand and braids onlyconnect by seaweed, you understand.Imagine my ocean of blood?Upon my second arrival, I heardthat my guilt was a very long process inthe writing among a number ofimperfect hands and across theintentions of hundreds of ill-begottenpeople who, with the same sincerity,stare at me dead with edited blue veinsdecorating their bodies like baptismalrivers that danced across the face oftheir homeland.I am so sick and tired of waiting for thelast drop of blood to leap, suicidal, off each of their chins. I’ve been watching forever. I want out.Copyright Jessica Jackson 2001(vera@draculamail.zzn.com)