I have been traveling into the earth since before my great-grandfather was born. It is something I do consciously, connecting back to the dead. I am not saying this from inside a dream. I have an alarm clock next to the bed.
I can hear the tunnels beneath the floor. Each tunnel has a different word that it repeats, has been repeating since before my great-grandfather went down into the earth. I follow each word down until it blends into another word. "Sell" dissolves into "Sin." "Sin" dissolves into "Salute." There are men still cutting tunnels down there, so the permutations are endless. I am not saying this from inside a dream. I have a knife next to the bed.
I've seen my great-grandfather down there. I've seen yours. He has quick scavenging eyes, albino skin slick as a cave fish. His claws reach out, tear at the earth. His nails are sharp, long. He doesn't need a pick-axe or shovel; he doesn't need a light. He has become a perfect digging machine. He lifts dirt to his mouth, chews, swallows. I am not saying this from inside a dream. I have a pair of gloves next to the bed.
Our ancestors keep eating. I hear them chewing and swallowing. They do not know how to stop. They will replace the earth. I am not saying this from inside a dream. I have a book of matches and a gallon of gas. I will follow the word "fire" down until it dissolves into "fish."
|August 2009. Copyright 2River. Please do not use or reproduce without permission.|