stream of consciousness I

The road, dunes and I walking hand in hand with a flask of Jim Bean. It’s so hot out here I could fry eggs on my knees as I watch my thighs and shins turn the color of crabs and peel. A curve I turn, and in the other side a pony horse. His eye, the only one I see, reflects the sun and deep in his black pupil I see the one cloud in the sky. His lips, and his yellow teeth, have green stains on them, and he seems to be singing holy songs of the grass to the birds circling above his head like angelical aureole.

All four of his legs, very syrupy with sweat; they end in four stars of the mid-day --bright brand new horseshoes. I stare now at his neck, and the bunch of flies drunk with this pony’s life swarming and whirling above the puncture wound.

I put my hand on his forehead. It is as cold as a penguin’s would.

This pony is dead.

You look ahead, ahead you look. Feathers. Black feathers are your whole line of horizon. All in life are circles; you spawn from an egg, you grow, you lay eggs, you die. Your life is an endless circle. In circles you flutter around. Those ahead of you, flutter too in circles as the ones behind you do too. Circles, feathers.

Above you, always the sky. Under you, always a corpse. If you weren't an animal but a mineral, you'd be dirt. Cemetery dirt, because below you, below your circles and the black feathers in front of you, there's always a corpse.

You look the ground, the ground you look. A corpse. A once horse. But you can't see, all you see is the crimson fountain on his neck.

Blood.

Red is perhaps the only color The Layer Of All Eggs allows you to see, and the only way you'll break the circle; red is by far the only color you know how to taste. You fly in circles, you are black feathers and a long neck and one ugly face. You dive, you break the circle, brave, mighty, decided. You eat cold blood, you lay round eggs.

You are a vulture.