The Ocean on my Roof

I found it when I went to clean the gutters.

I was climbing to my roof and found an ocean at the top.

Vast and pulsing it stretched to the horizon.

Seven miles in every direction. dancing with the moon.

The neighborhood gone, house gone,

Just the top of the ladder, out of the water.

My neighbors stare while I climb with beer and inter-tube.

There is a young red-haired gal with adult ears.

She will be gorgeous.

She plays the piano though she only knows Chopin’s waltz in D minor.

I don’t mind.

I flirt with her from my inter-tube, but she is silent.

“How long have you been on my roof?”

“Are you my angel?”

She smiles, hands gamboling across the keys, bobbing in the gentle rolling of the ocean.

I talk and she listens, through warm blister day and hurricane night, sun and shadow we chat.

She is the only one I see,

Chopin is the only one I hear,

for many years.

I like to ride the waves when the wind gets industry.

Pulled up slowly on the rollercoaster crest,

The only quiet spot in the park,

Then, , over

the,

lip

dashing down skipping across the water screaming like a stone.

I sleep under the noon sun, draped over the inter-tube like a corpse.

the small fish nip at my toes slumping in the water.

Alone in the atmospheric nothing above the glass surface.

crowded nightlife shoulders beneath me.

My eyes can’t spot the ladder, years since I looked.

When I go, I’ll be hustling pool at the bottom of the sea,

An alien on my own roof,

Double or nothing octopus-

Snooker with the marlin-

nine-ball with the sharks,

master of my purgatory,

scamming underwater enlightenment-a great way to kill time.

All bets are off.

The Old Man and the World

The Old Man and the World

Out on the lonely flat land where the horizon is fences and power lines,

surrounded by untended fields and a vast junkyard,

an old man built the machine

from old parts scavenged at night.

Slogging through the automobile cemetery with a cutting torch and halogen lamp.

The sound of his clamor echoed for miles.

Out here in the wasteland you can sit on your porch and watch the rain fall miles away like an old movie.

Storms move on the horizon but never arrive.

Or you can pick apart old automobiles and combines with a wrench and torch.

Distant thunder by day, and metallic thunder by night.

He was a grave robber, digging for pieces to build his masterpiece.

Dr. Frankenstein recycling pieces of the dead.

The cool night moon his comrade,

the empty stars behind the clouds like absent minded ghosts.

His heart always raced in the fields with the dead machines.

The light soaked up by their dust dull skeletons.

The solitary night was necessary in order to see the promise in the remains.

In the hot light of the sun they looked dead and absolute.

With the focused beam of the flashlight the second life of the metal was revealed,

Like a deep sea treasure hunter in the land of underwater midnight.

He wanders through the dense black battlefield the light sweeping quickly from corpse to corpse.

After removing a piece of metal from the carcass,

He would stand in silence, fearing any scrape or bump,

His eyes darting under the heavy wrinkled lids,

Breath quick and supernatural in the blue light of his torch,

Crystal beads collecting on his grey beard.

“Sorry lonely old father,” with a gloved hand on the metal.

He spoke with confidence but the whisper betrayed his fear.

Night after night he collected one piece,

and night after night he whispered the same mantra in the dark.

“Old father.”

The machine started as a thin pile of ribs on the barn floor.

Slowly as each piece was found one night at a time, one piece at a time,

A giant orb began to appear.

Some nights he stayed away from the field just to work on the wooden walkway around the sphere.

The barn flickered with the torch and the welder many nights like the television set in your neighbor’s house.

The crackle of the welder swallowed up in the night.

As he finished cutting a hood or welding a rusted frame he would whisper to his machine,

“Sorry lonely old father.” with a dirty hand on the metal.

The sphere looked like the frame of a giant old industrial planet,

Or a great dinosaur beetle skeleton all curled into itself.

Towering over the man as he scampered around and through the globe,

Bring it back to a new life, like a rust red manufactured phoenix.

Slowly the skeleton filled in with levers, seat, engine, and pedals.

“You are beautiful, old father,” with a tired hand on the metal.

Slowly the shell of the planet was placed piece by night,

Fully enclosing the skeleton and captain’s chair within.

Until finally, one speckled night the man came down the scaffolding and stood in his wide pants before the machine.

It was done.

The old man took a cigarette out and lit it.

The smoke collected in the hood of his welder’s cap.

“Old father,” the man laughed.

He put out the cigarette and slept there with the dust and the smell of oil on the hard barn floor.

He slept next to the great shadow of the corroded metal sphere he built in his barn.

With the morning sun the old man rose and dropped his welding cap to the floor with a hollow clap.

Into the belly of the machine he crawled.

Into the belly he locked himself,

Dark and dusty, creaks and drips.

He climbs up the innards of the machine, up into the chair at the center.

The sunlight sneaks through needle cracks all around him.

Strap the heavy boots into the petals,

Seatbelt across the waist and both shoulders like an old astronaut.

The dark belly smells like iron and oil.

His hands are black with the blood of this new machine.

Sooty fingers strike a match and it erupts like a flare in the vault.

Light dancing with all the shadows along the bulkheads.

The flame whispers into the tip of his cigarette creating a small ember in the dark.

It pulses with his breath.

The goggles come down over his eyes,

Hands grip handles and pull levers.

The machine trembles into life.

The sunlight pinholes blink out and he is plunged into black barking darkness.

“Trust me old father,” with a strong hand on the metal.

A great yellow grin under the grey bristles of his mustache.

Inside the world is thunder and scraping of old joints.

The old man moves pedals and levers, oil drips onto arms, pants, and face.

With a laugh that can barely be heard over the roar of the machine,

The old man takes control.

Various poems

This post is a small collection of poems I wrote during a meeting. Someday, hopefully I will be interviewed by magazines, and television shows for my insightful perspective on the human experience. For now I am writing dirty limericks during meetings.

Enjoy.


Ode to Mortgage

Mortgage enables a few rich white men
to live on large territories
purchased once,
by convincing everyone else to purchase
small territories twice.

There once was a girl named Kate,

whose fingers could rapidly vibrate.

She could have gone far,

as a guitar rockstar,

If she did more then just masturbate.

There once was a man named Fred,

whose morning wood was harder than lead.

His morning pee

was funny to see

when he learned to stand on his head.

There once was a boy named Cole,

who had teeth all around his butt-hole.

In order to eat,

he put food in his seat,

and his shit-breath was out of control.

Every Woman I Meet is Trouble

I wrote this poem while waiting for my friend Jerry to get off the phone. I wanted to tell him about how this gal at my son's karate class was hitting on my while talking about how her husband is an asshole and he will be deployed for about a year soon. Anyone who takes it seriously will be offended as with most writing. Thanks Robert Friend.

Every Woman I Meet

Every Woman I Meet is Trouble.
However,
My cup overfloweth,
Why not let it spill?

PS don't forget to read the new Monologues. It is even more fuck't up than the original.

The Monologues

I could not get myself to walk into the funeral parlor. I made it to the doorway and stopped. It felt as though I had a tomcat in my spine and he was using the back of my throat as a scratching post. I could feel all my guts twisting as the cat stretched and scratched threatening to send me into a panic. Every cell in my body became sick with the thought that Greg was really dead. Moving to the other side of the hall I sat in a chair that had been placed there for people just like me, or perhaps just for me. Greg and I both shared an alienation from the mainstream that is probably diagnosed and treated with drugs these days. Greg’s death seemed to add an ironic terminality to the alienation.

A Bible sat on the small table next to me and I laughed at the irony of having a Bible at Greg's funeral. We even covered the cross over the casket. Undersized flowers and a petite lamp accompanied the Bible on the small table. Why don't they have something a little more substantial sitting around for me to throw and break; something to ease this cat in my spine?

He looked really good actually, so silent and quiet. His hair was brushed back, and his eyes were closed gently. They dressed him in a clean white t-shirt. I thought that he should be in a sleeping bag instead of a casket. His lips were dry. I remember standing, trying to think of something to say, because I knew people were listening to me, wondering what I would say to him. What do you say to your twin? How do you speak to the dead body that looks just like you. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but the words seemed to be caught. Every time I would decide to speak the cat in my spine would raise his back and wine the way cats do when they are scared, or pissed, or talking to the dead, or whatever the fuck they are doing. I bent over thinking I might kiss him on the forehead and then I thought about makeup and wondered if I did, would I stand up with tan lips? And there on his forehead there would be a small kiss mark the color of, , . What color would it be, grey, red, purple, the cat inside me latched onto my spine with all four paws and sunk his teeth into my voice box. Instead I just whispered into his ear, "you need chap stick Greg." The final "g" dropping silently from me like a stone which disappears as soon as it hits the water and you wonder if it fell in at all. He knew what I meant.

Ten months after the funeral I received a phone call from an ex girlfriend of mine. Tammy and I were on speaking terms and managed to keep each other company once and a while. She informed me that she had bought us tickets to The Monologues and I had to go. I protested mostly because the thought of going out into a public place of entertainment made me tired. She said the tickets were too expensive and that booking a seat is "too involved." I agreed and didn't ask any more questions.

We decided to treat ourselves to a pre-funk at a small bar before the show started. And I remember sitting there listening to her talk thinking about her. She was a talker. I could have her back if I wanted. Right now, if I asked her, she would take me back. It could be so convenient. I thought about love in general. Did I love her? I thought for a moment. I could. Yes, sure I could. I mean isn't love just deciding to care and make small daily sacrifices for someone and enjoy the small sacrifices they make for you. I decided that I could easily love this woman who was all this time telling me some story that I nodded along with but didn't hear because I was thinking about loving her. Yes I could enjoy giving to this woman and we could be together and her happiness would make me happy and life would be so much simpler once I made this happen. I had decided to love this woman, just like that. In the relief of that decision I relaxed and listened to the end of her story. I will tell her my feelings as soon as she is done speaking. But before she finished I had changed my mind and the topic was never breached.

We found the theatre tucked behind a Chinese restaurant. The parking lot was dark and the theatre was only lit with a single green light. I was surprised to see a small line of people outside the door to the theatre standing in the dark waddling slowly toward the door. I noticed that we were underdressed and wondered if they were going to make a stink about it.

"Here's your ticket" Tammy said handing me a small square of red cloth. On it was printed some language I could not read. It reminded me of the small Tibetan flags you see in pictures of Everest base camp.

"What kind of theater is this anyway?" I asked folding the cloth square between my fingers.

"it's a surprise," came without eye contact. "You'll like it."

Instead of taking my ticket, the man at the door just said, "your seats are waiting." And he lead us through a curtain and into the strangest theatre I have ever seen. Once my eyes adjusted, the first thing I noticed other then the wet dust smell, were the isles. They weren't straight. They were impossibly, absurdly crooked. They zigzagged through the chairs more like a maze then an exit. Our guide led us through the turns of the isle silently and I followed, until finally he pointed to a couple chairs 5 rows back from the front along the left half of the theatre.

Everyone was so quiet it kept me from speaking much. I made a comment about wanting a snack and I got some dirty looks from the couple in front of us. There was a steady din that seemed to make the hairs on my arms stand up. I then realized that there was a gal two rows back who was not talking. She was crying. I was about to mention it to Tammy when I noticed another person crying, then another off to my right. I turned to Tammy and as I was about to ask her what the fuck this was all about, the few dim lights went out.

The crying seemed to increase. Are these people terrified? Should I be terrified? There was a wave of whimpers and sobs that moved through the crowd and through me like a school of ghostly eels and my muscles tensed with their electricity. I looked at Tammy and she was staring at the stage, her eyes wide and her hands seemed to be choking each other. I looked to the stage.

It was completely dark. I could just make out the basic shape of the curtain moving like a whisper across the dusty wooden stage floor. But beyond it was complete emptiness. Everyone in the theatre was straining to see something on the stage along with me. I could feel their collective desire straining to see something and I became caught up in it like a gust of wind pushing me into the stage. My mind leaned into the wind and I stared into the black empty stage. Someone gasped and before I could wonder what it was about, I saw the man.

He seemed to rush onto the stage from the darkness so fast I didn't see the movement. Though to be honest I didn't know what to expect, so anything was going to be a surprise. Then I noticed that the man wasn't moving. He seemed perfectly still, though after watching him a minute I would see that, while I didn't notice a movement, he was in a different pose. He was a cloud that changes and moves though your eye cannot discern; the change is so subtle. He wore a brown suit and a blue tie. He had a beard and seemed to be mumbling something to himself. I wanted to listen to his words, but there was a fresh tumult of sobs and whimpers from a very congested group in the theatre straight to my right.

I glanced at Tammy and she seemed to relax, her hands now resting in her lap. I stared at the man. We are not meant to hear him? I cannot even understand the language he is speaking. His mouth and eyes seemed blurry and again I saw that he now had his hand in the air though I could not remember if he raised it or if he appeared with it up and it was raised to begin with.

I suddenly felt very foolish. I am a child here and I do not like it. What does everyone else know that I do not? Is this some new Gothic magical show that I am not invited to share in on the joke. Why don't I like this old man on the stage.

The cat inside me began to wake up and I took a deep breath. I need to just calm down. Just a man talking on the stage, some modern theatrical art that I am not appreciating. I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. But why were people crying? What the fuck was...I opened my eyes and the man disappeared just as he had appeared, without me really noticing. I couldn't tell if the room had deflated or if everyone was holding their breath. It was silent now. I honestly wondered if the show was over. I watched the stage, my eyes burning to see something. I wanted to see the entrance of the actor this time. I didn't want my eyes to be fooled. I don't want to be the tourist in the crowd.

A girl was on the stage. She seemed to appear like something rising up out of dark muddy water. I didn't even hear her walk on the planks of the stage. Again she spoke and again I could not understand her words anymore then I could see her movements. Though as I listened I realized that she was speaking English, though it must have been a deep southern accent that she spoke so quickly I could only get a couple words from her, "Last March" and "shame about the wedding." She was beautiful. She had bright blond hair that was tied up in braids on each side. As she spoke there were mumblings in the crowd.

I am going to ignore the crowd, I thought. I am going to figure this out. I leaned forward trying to hear everything she said. She wasn't looking at the crowd. I don't even think she is in any way connected to the old man talking before. Again the cat inside me seemed to stretch and paw, as though he was going to fluff a pillow on my guts. My nerves felt like a cement mixer.

Then, before I knew that she had moved, I realized that we were staring at each other. I sat back and looked around. Had I ruined it? Had I upset something? I felt as though I had just pushed over the cake at someone’s wedding. I had messed something up. Was I trying too hard? What the fuck was going on? I looked back at her and I knew. I knew what it was that was moving through the audience like a cold draft sickness infecting me before I could name it. I knew as I looked into the vacant eyes of the girl on the stage, and as those eyes seemed to look right at me. Though she wasn't talking to me nor for me. I don't even think she knew I was staring at her. She was dead. She was a dead girl standing on the stage. How or to what extent she even knew I could not tell. Somehow there she was, the strings of her soul pulled and pranced her upon this natural stage for the living to watch. My eyes burned.

She disappeared.

In her place another surfaced moving without moving, changing before me. This one was a man, another old man with dark hair and a long face. He was so skinny under his grey suit coat with his vest and pleated pants. Did he know that he was being pushed out on stage, like some undead Pinocchio dancing ignorantly for our entertainment? Comfort? I recognized the man on the stage. I turned to Tammy and saw that she was leaning forward in her chair. This was the man she came to see. I knew it right away; I had seen his picture on her fridge. I was finally meeting her father. The cat in my guts yanked down on my tongue and I thought I was going to throw up right there in the theatre. I curled up and starred at my feet. Oh Fucking hell what the fuck was going on here!? I stared at my feet for some time. I don't think Tammy noticed because she didn't do so much as touch my back, though I don't know if she would notice, it was so dark. Slowly the voice of her father was replaced by the voice of a young Mexican boy. The voice of the boy was replaced by the sound of an elderly woman. I closed my eyes and listened.

Slowly I sat up and looked around. My eyes were burning and my nerves were going off like a fireworks display. My arms and feet were welded in place. The people around me were calm and vacant. How much longer can this take? I want to be out of here right now! The cat inside of me was whining in anger and I felt panic dancing just outside the door. Like a prowler walking around your house at night glancing in your windows. Do you lie still hoping they will leave or do you turn on every light and try to scare them away? I sat there with my heart going off like a machine gun earthquake, and I watched the old woman sink away under the darkness.

My eyes knew what was coming before I saw the next apparition. Tears streamed out of my eyes. God my eyes were burning. Even before he surfaced completely I moaned and pushed myself back into the dusty dry seat. There stood Greg, tall and proud. He seemed to just stand and stare for some time. He looked just like me. There on the stage, was my twin. Myself. My head came back against the seat as I sank down. The cat inside me was scratching and clawing at my spine, sending electric needles throughout my skin like a thousand baby spiders. I thought I might pass out. I sat forward on the edge of my seat trying to figure out how I was going to get out of here. Greg's head had moved, and his eyes were getting narrow. My right arm began to shake against the armrest and I sat on my hand to try and stop it. Greg's eyes continued to narrow; he was getting angry. I knew then that he was going to speak. He was going to speak, I didn't know what he was going to say, whether it was some recording of a moment in his life or his spirit's reaction to this obvious intrusion, but he was going to speak and I didn't want to hear what he was going to say. It would be too much. I was doomed to never sleep now, I was sure I would die if I heard him speak. What if he spoke and I passed out. What could happen to me if I passed out in this place where spirits are forced to replay a part they had long ago been relieved of? My own spirit, so thin and vulnerable and naked during that time while I lay unconscious. Greg looked so angry. I imagined that he was going to yell and the sound alone could pull my spirit free. Oh Greg, why can't I sit and enjoy the sight of you, I loved you so much, but now, not this. I am so sorry. The cat was in a frenzy inside me, and I stood to leave.

I tried to move slowly as though I was only going to visit the men's room. However compared to the rapid fire lightening strikes occurring inside me, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Tammy reached up and tried to pull me back down and some other hand reached out to me, and I pushed them both away. Tammy said something to me and I glanced up at Greg. Please, don't speak yet, oh God don't look at me. I turned away. The cat was screaming in my ear and I could hear nothing else. I ran as fast as I could. In two steps I ran into a pair of seats in the middle of the isle. Remembering the crazy maze of the isle I tried to turn to the left. I didn't know which way to go. I ran, collided with people who I'm sure I would have heard except for the screaming in my mind. Hands tried to right me or suppress me. My arms I threw around trying to move everyone out of the way. I fell on the floor and began to scamper as fast as I could through a maze of arms and legs. I didn't even know where I was anymore. I had lost all sense of direction and for a moment feared that I might stand out of the crowd and find myself standing at the foot of the stage. Frozen in fear at this supernatural theatre of the deceased. Looking up at my long dead friend, my brother, myself as he tried to figure out what was being done to him.

I crawled out of the angry crowd and saw the exit before me. I bolted just as Greg's voice began his protests behind me. Through the curtain covering the exit, and through the lobby I flew. I was controlled by my own panic at this point. The doors slammed open and I stumbled out into the gutter screaming. I fell down dry-heaving in the rain.

Michael J Munro

The Mandrill

I first noticed the baboon on my drive home. He, or she for that matter, would be sitting just inside the trees along the road. I realized after a couple days of this, that the baboon was sitting there looking down the road, and as I would drive past he or she would turn her head and watch me. I wondered about her and thought that she should be travelling in a pack. What did I know about baboons? I didn’t think that baboons lived in this part of the country, but then again, I didn’t know exactly where they were supposed to live.

A couple weeks later I saw him from quite a ways down the road, and I watched many cars drive past him. He ignored them. As I was driving past watching him watch me, just as I was thinking to myself, he is waiting for me, he threw a rock at my car. That fucking monkey threw a goddamn rock at my car. It couldn’t be bigger then a golf ball, but I heard it click off the passenger-side door. In the rear-view mirror I watched her disappear into the trees. I drove on cussing. When I got home I got out and looked at the small nick in the blue paint.

Steaming, I walked into the house and dialed half of the number to my insurance company. What was I going to tell them? There was a baboon along the side of the road and he was waiting for me so he could throw a rock before running into the woods.

I didn’t see the baboon for many weeks after that. I didn’t know what I would do when or if I did see him again. Would he throw a larger rock next time? Maybe someone had him picked up by animal control.

It was three weeks later when I saw her walking along the highway. I pulled up right behind that bright red chapped ass waddling up the side of the road. I hopped out of the car and yelled at the animal. I stomped up behind the baboon. I knew what I was going to do. I was going to kick his ass. Was this a boy or a girl anyway? Which one has the huge red ass?

The pain was more then I thought I could handle. I was actually proud of myself that I didn’t pass out. I remember seeing the giant yellow teeth and wondering why she wasn’t bothering to just bite me and get it over with. I’m pretty sure she could break my neck with that jaw.

Instead she jumped on me and squeezed me until rib after rib bent and cracked. She broke any appendage I threw at her. I was screaming in agony and shame at my new jello limbs when I noticed there was a car coming up the highway. These people will save me. I will be saved. I smiled. I think I smiled. My lip was split, and when I smiled, I felt a tooth come loose and rest in the back of my throat.

The mandrill glanced for a moment at the car. You are dead, you stupid baboon. Never fuck with someone’s car. Lesson dismissed. He grabbed me quickly around the ribs, I screamed. He held my other hand up with his own, and he began to spin me. I tried to get loose but he held me like a pissed off lover. He spun me around as the car drove past. It was a green station wagon. As they drove past I just had time to see a lady driving two kids in the back seat. They were smiling and giving me a thumbs up. He’s dancing with me. I realized with a nervous laugh that sounded more like a cry. This motherfucker is dancing with me and everyone is just driving past, entertained. Enter-tained. I thought again crying. This baboon is fucking genius. Once the car was gone the baboon stopped dancing and he just looked at me. I stared in terror into those blank round eyes. They were so close together on his face, making her look more like a toy. We just stared at each other for a moment.

The baboon opened his mouth and filled my face with his loud yell. Although they were slightly yellow, I couldn’t help but notice his teeth were in great shape. This animal is going to kill me. The noise seemed to infect all the small cuts and abrasions on my face. The breath was pleasant. Other then the teeth, his mouth, tongue and throat actually reminded me of the soft pink flesh that is always a gift. I am going to die thinking of pussy.

After the yelling was over the baboon continued to unleash her rage upon my arms and legs. She screamed as she twisted my arms. I screamed as she twisted my arms. Anytime she released me I tried to run back to the car. Why did I get out of the car? Let me start again and I will just run this bastard over. I might make it two steps before she was on me again.

There were two other cars that drove past, and twice more we danced. The second car was a white minivan, the third I didn’t see. The mandrill had punched me in the windpipe right before the third car came by and I had my head tucked into his shoulder like the drunk you brought to the wedding. I think I had given up by the time I heard the third car honk as it drove past. My eyes were swelling shut and my ears were ringing. When she quit dancing with me the third time I fell to the ground.

I started to laugh. This really is a funny way to die. What was this animal anyway? Was the mandrill the one with the bright snout and ass? He stomped on my knee before sitting on my tenderized kidneys. I laughed again. I thought of Dawn. She used to get so frustrated with me because life was always so easy for me. A fist cracked into my shoulder blade knocking the wind out of me. “You never have to plan, things just fall into place for you don’t they? You get into trouble but you come out smelling like roses.” She was right. I pulled my arms up under my head. It is hard to laugh and gasp for breath at the same time, yet just the irony of that thought makes me laugh more. Life has been too easy for me. I felt my nose finally bust as the mandrill drove my head into the gravel aside the highway. That taste of dusty gravel blood. I guess this has been coming for a long time.

Cave Painting

The Dalai Lama and I were giggling in the dark,

painting crude pictures on the cave walls.

He holds the flashlight because he is too sensible to do the painting.

He loves to laugh, and we spend the day in the dark,

stomachs hurting and eyes watering.

In the dark, the true dark, he teaches me to meditate.

“We are here in the belly of our mother,”

returned to the dark deadly womb,

From whence we came so shall we return.

The darkness is a warm blanket.

There are no dimensions, it is everywhere and we are nowhere.

Our voices seem to disappear right out of our mouths,

like a chorus underwater.

I imagine it would bounce around like a laser in a house of mirrors, returning minutes later to scare us with it’s dusty alteration.

Instead it is muffled, swallowed up in the choking wool midnight.

There is a jellyfish bobbing through the darkness.

It glows pink pulses gliding through this nightmare shadow.

From it a thousand points of light are born, and the fish dissolves.

I lean back and laugh at the living disco ball cave.

The Dalai Lama is still speaking, though now I am sliding through the dust with my delicate brail antennae fingers.

They bounce and scan the texture with record needle softness.

Like fingertips across a breast, skimming the skin, preparing it for lips.

I am able to move through the cave with sticky fingers and toes.

The dimensionless dark becomes a world of bumps, dusty floors, and slick ceilings.

My eyelids grow closed and shrink from apathy.

Tactile vision

Fingers enlarge and I am able to know my location by the way my voice disappears. His voice appears.

These dusty dark caverns with sharp stone and absolute night are too concrete, too bedrock, cold and uninviting.

I can only smell earth, taste my own dry soil, touch stone.

In the darkness he becomes annoyed because I only dream of the female.

How do I get into so much trouble?