Bleeding
written by: Chris Callard
Bleeding, blood seeping through skin like through cheesecloth to the shirt, between ribs, no rupture, saturating the shirt through the skin somehow, a good shirt ruined, a side soaked on the freeway, on the road, blood seeping in traffic, in the car, no wound, slow sensation, clean but not quite concise. The blood is the life, a streaming device, manic rib slide, time staring as blood wrecks through selfish skin saturating a soaked nation steeping and sleeping, blood smugly bleeding unquietly, uniquely, smoothly wounded, through skin steaming. Ruined shirts on a road loaded but never bold enough, too much stuff not stuffed down enough throats, or too many, never enough red or blue or black or another hue through ribs, cheesecloth, shirts unwashed, unleavened, unfolded, never laundered, the well-known fall, the freeway blocked, interstate insensate, intestate, no living will or trust, probate for and from the hanging state, legacy of the great unwashed, the great unvanquished, unvarnished. Blood seeping, steeped in battling sheep, sleeping, weeping, unyielding constipated state of unkind mind, too much history, hysterical twistery. I bleed and can’t deal with it, I bleed and wonder if it will heal, no clotting, too knotted, blood seeping through skin, so many shirts ruined, so much traffic on freeways unfree.
