The neighbors . killed my mother's tree . by pruning what they perceived shadowed . their lawn
Every yard in this purgatorial waiting room . slight variation of one tree . weekly cut grass . a ring of rocks . or stones . I can not tell . which
The internet tells me rocks are large . and made of stones . and stones are small . and made of rocks . and pebbles are rocks . made of stones . made of pebbles . and this is how i am coming back . to language
The neighbor's grass is lovely . this month . just like everyone else's
My mother calls the neighbor's dog ugly . as it shits on her yard . A barb wasted on an ear that has no common tongue . A rock is pelted . A stone skips . You rock someone to sleep . Stone a person to death . Yet stoned people are sleepy . A death can rock you
Geologists have more words and ideas about language and death . But if there are any geologists in this neighborhood . they too are trapped in a house . wishing they were sand in a windstorm . not an hourglass .not between treads in ugly . white . sneakers
One tree in a yard creates no wind . I think . So hurricane season . skips this part of the buffet . That’s not how weather works . There are no meteorologists in this neighborhood either . Storms are large but not made of wind . Wind is infinite and not made of storm
What I have forgotten in language . I have made up for in small talk . Particularly about myself . and the last month . which is infinite and made of storm . yes . I am feeling better . thank you . so lucky to have a mother . a hospital . doctors . blink when Jesus is hiccuped . no I don’t remember . it is hot here . I take a mile long walk every day . I still don’t know where I’m going . All I can think of is not being able to remember the three weeks of breath hitching storm
I don’t know precisely what I want to talk about . I don’t have the language for me . just the language of me . I am large and made of another word for me . I am pruned language shadowing my own mouth
Today I walked lost for five nearly identical miles . all uphill . a ring of language that somehow brings me back to small talk . I’m storm . thank you . I am lucky my mother is sand . the last month is pebbles . Thank you . thank you . my mile long walk is infinite . I am told it will bring me to the next place I complain about . One complaint in a mouth does not make home . I think . But my small talk looks infinite today . just like everybody else’s
I think the ring of my thinking is the shadow of dementia . Slight variation of phrasing . Near identical imagery . neighboring the wind of my future language
I prune my walk until I stop having to think . about what part of me is shadowing my mother’s neighbors' ears . I would rather my language die by my own hands . than by echoes . I can not tell apart
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