family gatherings

Catholic Caravan

Reality, like childrens nail polish across my skin;


toxic film that wrinkles when I move my hand to reach for the television remote.

 

 Like a ghostly pretense,


or an old man's hand

   

that's only a membrane stretched over bones which have bent and cracked with the cobble stone, peeling paint times.

 

 Humans walk past me in my plastic arm chair, 


their bodies being stretched

 

 and ripped


from seconds before into watercolor zombies.

 

 My own saliva wraps around my brain, dripping down into my eyes and turning to milk. 


I can't feel the scintillating, raspberry thoughts

 

 bob through my mind and explode into a shower of citrus and wood stain.


From sitting to standing

 

 I can't even feel the transition blow against my skin.


Wading effortlessly through my existence

 

 I accidentally wiggle my hands into the holes of reality, and then I sit down again;


that rusty red moment

   


in which I could see through my eyelids is gone


and will only come again

 

 when another travels towards me in a catholic caravan.