All the things we do not say

I’ve told you of how I am doing today. I’ve told you what I’ve been up to every week for years.
I’ve never told you of the toxic yellow glow of the seahorse that swims in my stomach, overfed, that whinnies so slightly when something just isn’t right
The moss covered ogre that dwells in my knuckles huddled over a dying flame he stokes high and bright on occasion and howls “make my home bloody master, make my home bloody”
Of the amorphous goo that crawls my head with a hundred thousand pseudo pods that feel out every nook and crevice of the inside of my skull and refuses to allow me to sleep not allowing me to breed and rut among the rest of the human race
Of the old man living in both my knees at once that pounds on the ceiling with his knotted wooden cane every time the damp comes, that cackles over the sound of a television turned all the way up to “keep it down up there! You’ll bring down the whole house jumping around like that.”
I’ve never told you how I often watch the tv with him.
I’ve never told you of the one legged soldier that sits in my chest stamping together buttons that never sell for charity, rubbing the stump he has for a left leg, and all day long yearning to learn to play the bagpipe, just a tune or two, before he dies, knowing he no longer has the lungs for it, knowing that placing the tip of that instrument to his lips will be his last act
I’ve never told you of the wind that wheezes through me when I lay down to sleep rasping why the last cigarette Bill why the twenty one years of last cigarettes
Or the liver that dances the jig, that shakes the rafter rocking from side to side until the liquor bottles fall from the shelves on the walls of my insides and empty themselves all over him again, and again
I’ve never told you how much I get when I recycle those bottles
Or of how pseudo pods behind my eyes wipe my orbs clean of tears every time I watch the news sparing me the embarrassment of shedding them down the flaky dead cells of my face
My face that the old Apache dwells in dancing around the only mountain in the entire desert that is my nose howling into the wind that rises from its cliff for more sun, more rain, less white man, and gaming rights
There is so much I’ve never told you
I’ve never told you of the muscular, sharp tongued hypocrite and fat, bald, young conscience, and oh how they bicker
Hypocrite calling conscience names and dancing in conscience’s sad downward glances all the while hypocrite screaming “don’t be such a pussy” while conscience feeds the flames, telling hypocrite every word he should not say just as hypocrite tires of the last one
I’ve never told you of how hard conscience cried at hypocrite’s every wake, because a hypocrite’s death is not a rare event
I’ve never told you of mother loss and how much I will miss her placing love in my then callused hands along with the chores upon my shoulders
I’ve never told you of so many things
But never mind that.
Hey the weather sure is something isn’t it?
What? Today? Oh, nothing much.


3 thoughts on “All the things we do not say

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