Yogi-a-go-go

I’ve taken to a regime of water-drinking
as much as possible and all the time.
I’m washing myself inside and out.

Standing at the sink I’m swallowing directly from the tap
pushing my face to where the liquid runs out.
With the pressure some gathers in my mouth
the rest deflects off my lips and cheek
splashing in designs down my shirt and up into my hair.

I considered eating damp rags as the yogis do
but after chewing on a wet silk scarf gave up.
It was dark and heavy and seemed unwilling.
I saw myself in the long mirror dropping it down like spazzaturi
its tassels brushing the back of my throat and me becoming doubtful.

How could I be sure it would arrive?
How could I be certain?
Scarves, or other cloth, might decide to stay inside
wait out the recession and see.

They might grow while they were in there
become a blanket or something bigger.
The fabric could change to albino in the darkness
become twine moving in different directions
separate into strings and float with a purpose
tie up my lungs and already fat liver.
I feel sure I’ve made the right decision.

 

 

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