The Corduroy Mtn. The Land of Mouth Breathers Patrick Lucy In the evening my share is a small bird in the window. A modest sunset fills my belly. I believed if it hadn't been for the walking, I never would've arrived. That was last week- I know better now. My head rolls downhill trying to measure the distance from my bedpost to the jump-rope in light years. I've yet to grow a bedpost I can return to. I gave up and released my grip on Tuesday. It was Wednesday then. In between, the flocks I was imagining were being erased from the film by an artist. I take the sunrise whole in my mouth each morning, asking What's your name?, looking for my own name. A woman came back to me, she said I am not speaking from the patterns on this faded dress, these pulled hairs, that steel blue watering can recliner, the five tonsils of regret or the larynx of forgiveness. It wasn't forgiveness, I argued like a tree (from the ground up). Clients arrive with their stomachs inside out and pulled over their heads. They are not interested. They are like creatures from the bottom of the sea, independent, finally, of weather and light. previous | next Added to The Corduroy Mtn. on December the thirtieth in the year two thousand and eight.