Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Bullet from the hill took my insides out

I was in the long grass outside the main field. Breathing shallowly because the oxygen up here is metered out in small parcels. I'm not like the string and bones people round here, brown strips of skin stretched on tall bones, walking from one moss hut to another, stopping, then gossiping and drinking steaming pints of yogurt, fermented with tiny mountain flowers (small blooms, white and close-fisted), talking shit and petty intrigue in a language I don't know.

So I, gasping, stretched out under the bitter-yellow sun, on dark spinach green lawns, felt less than involved in the day-to-day; I am not interested in horses, or yaks.

And then some fucker shot me; I saw the glint above me and beyond in the sharp geology piled up over there (higher), and then heard the swish of bullet and then the dull thunk as it hit. And then I'm wondering why that hurts so much.

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