Devil’s Darning Needle

My troubles are legion. My troubles bide time on the tongues of clods. My
troubles swim the acid ocean, shellacked with superstition. Deathless. Sure to
walk again.

My troubles are salted with cruel bedtime stories. My troubles are the
aftertaste of everything must mean. I mean devil and dinosaur, and so begin
my troubles. I mean double face of heal and mortify. I mean a story about
hubris. I mean a story about transformation. I mean bounty of fish and ill
omen of upending. With my tale comes my trouble. Barnacle on the tongue,
that splintered oar.

My troubles dangle raucous legs and lack respect for systems. System:  World
unsighted. Magic trick that bleeds on impact. But my troubles  never balk at
drawing blood. My troubles have it in them. To crush life worlds. To eat
infants. Teeth of how does this work.  Glands of can we look inside.

Before I had myself—web of clear morning, so long coming—I had my
troubles and their tales like sirens. Kill the children, heal the children, row the
children to the other side. My troubles, how they wail from roof tops. How
they scribble over history with their fair weather demands.