Manifesto #53 or, Memory is Like That

Speckles of color. Colors.
The rain. A road. Patterns.
Memory is like that.

A drifting. A lover.
A child who never was.
Alone. Thriving. Lost.

Who?
What?
How?
When?
Where?
Why?

Memory is contrary.
Memory refuses to answer those questions.
Memory stomps her feet and screams, "Aw feck you."
In loud gutteral gasps and spurts
Memory laughs and laughs
And will not care if you stand her in a corner
Until she behaves.
Memory is like that.

And memory is like this.
A softness. Fingers. A hand.
A foot. A body. Fur, skin, nails.
Faster and faster she flies
Up, up, up until the bubble bursts
and she dies.

She dies laughing.
Memory is like that.

Memory is all of those things.
Memory is none of those things.
Memory is everything and nothing and flapping
In the breeze.

In the wind, in the storm.
The tumult thunder takes a breath.
Dead babies drown and a wolf howls.
Memory runs away because she is like that.

She breaks hearts and remains long after
The brain has failed in his quest for something else,
Anything but this. This emptiness. This nothing.
Empty spaces. Zero words. Cellular death.