Flies

June 5, 2016 
The Little Grasshopper Cafe
Pedras Negras and Espresso

I keep walking and I keep talking, but they still won’t go away. I hear them. I can’t see them, but I can hear them and I can feel them. I shake my arms and wiggle my fingers and I move, move, move, move, move but they are are there; they are still there. Always. Not always. Mostly. I smoke and they go away for a minute, then they’re back.

I say the words, the words, the words, the words, the words, the words but they don’t work anymore. They used to keep them out but now they don’t. I say the words, I move, I shake my arms I move. I am a horse with flies in its eyes and I shake my head but they are always there. I shake my head but they cling to me. I scratch and dig but they cling and burrow and dig and I hate them.

New words maybe? I have flies in my eyes, flies in my eyes, flies from the skies in my eyes and they won’t go. Won’t. Go.

Smoke. They hate the smoke. I get the smoke. I get some relief. Only a little. More smoke, more flies, more smoke, more flies.

Faster. Walk faster and bob and weave and talk and swing and shake and scratch and smoke. It’s too late. They are in my head. In my heart. In my guts. In my belly.

You think you know. You don’t see them. Only I can see them and I can’t see them. They are there; they crawl in me; they crawl on me; they won’t crawl out of me. I need smoke and still more and more. I need. Never enough smoke to make them go.

They are eating me. I am shrinking. I flail and talk and move; I say the words, but now they have me. They carry me through the city and I can’t help it anymore. They run me, they rule me, they eat me from the inside out.

I am not me. I am them.