ELEVEN: RETURN FROM SURGERY WAR

The road to go home from surgery war is stitched with time, will burn you like lime. The road to go home from surgery war will practice forgetting, and all offs are betting. The road to go home from surgery war is hard as a boulder and makes you grow older. The road to go home from surgery war is long but is under and no short of thunder.

And as you walk home, you see all the billboards and mindsigns that remind you of your time, of that time to remember, that time to remember surgery war, because you have just experienced it, you have just experienced surgery war, and it has made a mark on you as clear as landscrape.

And so someone who has served in surgery war, someone like a Cyclops someone, that someone might just talk out loud about the surgery war experience. Such a someone must talk about it, whether there are any others to hear or to care.

“I served my company in surgery war, I served the sign of the red and blue, I saw the logo-draped coffins, and that made me cry like mother’s milk. I saw bodies mangled by steel and disease, I saw them mangled by surgeon’s skill, I saw augmentation, and reversal of features, and other wonders and shifting of shapes.”

The flash of straight lightning. The corners of crooked night. The lash of your memory forgetory. A strainage kitchen of landscape. That man of mountain walking back and forth like he wonders what you are doing in his cookhouse of geography. If he only had a map, so he could know how much further he had to go and how he was never going to make it.

When Cyclops came to a fork, which tine should Cyclops trust. When Cylcops comes to a trust, which fork should Cyclops tine. When Cyclops comes to a tine, which trust should Cyclops fork. If only there were signs, like a speckled turtle, or a lady frog walking with her cane.

“Maybe I should take all the good advice and turn back the clock and just return to wicker furniture making and TV expectating. Maybe I should be happy in a certain set of shows and not walk so much to other pain of who’s.”

Cyclops says this on such a road, and who wouldn’t, really, say it out loud when there was no reason to say it out loud, or louder. He can say it out loud as if Dingy Bahsome could hear it, but there is no way that she can hear it. He can talk to himself or to no others. Or is it better to sing it when it is such a song, such a song of go home, such a song of never being there.

Home could be where you roam

But mostly home is just plain home

I do not have a home

If I am only roaming

Unless my home is Rome

And I would be a Roman

And if a Cyclops does get home after the trauma and drama and slama and wrongma of surgery war, then how does a town of rhymers greet such a return of tall post-trauma post-treama post-dreama Cyclops. Are they there with minds and doors open, with flowers and howars and towers with wowers, or are they there with windows and sindows and flindows and grindows and other awfuls closed sad and shut and tut tut ta-rut. Cyclops doesn’t know a guess, Cyclops can’t for the life of him expect to know, he just has to go, he just has to go, and get set for the show, and prepare high and low.