Fire-eater
fire-eater@riseup.net is a recovering writer/student/activist living in Portland, OR.
He can be found on his day off muttering to his ducks anti-civilizational Blake and Milton passages in his garden and greenhouse.
In utero, I became bored with the scenery, no greenery, just womb in pitch-black, too hot and no thermostat. Startled, then annoyed when my host peed, I need freed and I’ve looked all over for something to read; even so, there’s no light switch, and don’t name me Mitch.
Inside, I pondered and plotted, my growing dissent with the food I’m allotted, unsure at times if I even got it.
I carefully calculated, then tried with abandon to stand in there, sick of being curled like a gourd, still bored, so I planned in there whether or not to grow a third hand, the final piece needed to be able to sit up or run or maybe I’m meant to stroll on my toes, there he goes…
Shit. I quit. Bumped my head, heavy as lead, frustrated by my failure to consider uterine diameter, already I think in iambic pentameter, with a fresh-sprouted finger I jam at her…
Still tortured and bored, repeated tugs at my umbilical cord — thick as leather, I want loose from this tether! I want to be out, to be actual, or just mutter about weather. I want “fun in the sun”, to be hurting with pain, disappointed it rained, or to have a man with a badge call me insane, and then to decide just to refrain.
Out there I can button a coat, forget to vote, eat and bloat, dig a moat around your circumference attending by cell phone a conference, a sub-committee on the relevance of subversive dish-washing techniques. Being born means “indentured servitude just for fun”. And guess what? I won.
