Under the heat of thoughts,
the humidity of age,
the fabric of an old gray jacket,
I sweat memories.
They saturate the pores of my system.
I stink.
I blame two brothers: Apocrine and Merocrine.
I quarantine them on top of Everest
and send sister Sebaceous to the South Pole.
The freezing body stinks.
I rub my skin with spring water,
white sage leaves, Easter lilies
and remorse. The soft touch stinks.
I soak my head in relationships,
fountains of rum, barrels of numb,
and rivers of long naps. The floating dream stinks.
I hide in the Mariana Trench
neighboring the quiet sea cucumbers,
babysitting the little shrimps,
and painting a nude scale worm.
The exotic darkness stinks.
I join a cult.
They scoop the left side of my brain,
I chill it and eat. Still aware,
I swallow the leftovers
and sharpen my skull for Lars Ulrich sticks.
The muffled sound stinks.
After years of serving loneliness,
every night and before bed
I take off my gray jacket,
floss my ideas
and dry sweat with recyclable pages
I lay over the deserted shelves of a bookstore.
Every morning I wake up untucked,
dry
and covered with dust.
© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud
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