Sidewinder
Make no jokes if I speak with a foreign tongue
Through particles. Through atmospheric sand. Sure of a hell of a lot of me moves through it more than a little preserved. I shuffle a glass jar across the desert and all the neighbors sink in my disappearing trails with jealousy. And the chill of open night would also pause in this way for dramatic effect. As I would have it.
Call me errant flagellant if it makes you happy. I prefer to think of myself as sidewinder instead. Don’t even bother asking me for my reasons. They undulate deep into the night beyond your fragile comprehension. I don’t mean to be combative, but that’s how the hill of my life was shaped. That’s how I learned to slide alongside it. Yes, I thirst. It holds me to this kind of practical belligerence: I must drink from the blood of my enemies.
Land over land is something great rivers would wind if they could follow over sand as this wind which I mimic. Delimited gimmick, I billow up and down in grace. I blink and wake up somewhere else. Make no jokes if I speak with a foreign tongue. Do not question my intentions. Take my words for theirs instead.