This is weird, eh?

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In the country of storytellers,
there is nothing inconceivable
unless it cannot be vocalized.
You are not born until you emerge
from the mouth of another.

In the country of storytellers
love is a pawnshop full
with things cast off by dire necessity
waiting to be redeemed by the next
needy person.

In the country of storytellers
the dissident reflex exists
only for a minute at time
before being re-absorbed like a bubble
in melting chocolate.

In the country of storytellers
we sleep with our hands
over our ears because the air is so full
of lint,
pencaps, tongues.

In the country of storytellers
a ghost is just a story
without a teller and even though
the country is enormous, it is still
lousy with ghosts.

In the country of storytellers
Death is a pair of lips
that kiss you into a box
until you become
pornographic to others.

In the country of storytellers,
there is little room for all of us
around the great tower in the
center of things and
there’s no hope that it will ever fall.

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I think it’ll eventually be weirder.

Synchronicity alert: a co-worker just passed me a brochure about a storytelling workshop.