I, Willie Dye

�I'm not supposed to be like this, but it's okay�
----R.E.M.




        

I, Willie Dye, look out my good eye
                And search for the warmth of the sun,
                                I try as I try and I gaze to the sky,
                                                But for warm, I urinate, trousers still done.

                        =+                        =+                        =+                


        I like to lay here. I like to. Lay here. Here I like to lay. Here I like to. Lay. I like. I lay. Here. I. Lay.

        I watch them come and go. Each day. Day in. Day out. They eat. They work. They lead. They follow.
        They come.
        They go.
        They are staff.
        They take care of me.
        Take care staff.
        Of me.

Sometimes the noise becomes so great that I cannot stand it. They insist on it. They won't let me stop it. I try. I unplug. The cold box stands in the corner and buzzes at me. I unplug. It takes me thirty minutes to get to it, but I do. I unplug and let the cold box get warm. It does not buzz at me now and I lay next to it. Sleeping begins and I dream. I dream. I can talk in my dreams. I can stand. I run. To the next hill, I make my way. The grass here is tall in dreams. It grabs at my legs and I cannot move again. I struggle. I push myself up. The grass tries to pull me down again. It succeeds. I am experienced at crawling. I crawl. I feel the handfuls of dirt and green in my hands. I grab and release. I tell the tall grass to release me. It just stands and sways. It is dancing as I lay among it. It has captured me. It thinks. I look out with both eyes to the tall tree up the hill. I don't speak because the grass is hearing me. I jump. I have broken free. I take big big steps. I hop from rock to rock. Up I go to the top. The tree is in my hands now. I say hi. I want to sit on you. I want to get away from the grass. It means me harm. I take the tree in my arms. I feel the rough. This is a blackjack tree. It is tall. And it buzzes. It should not buzz. Tree, do not buzz. You do not buzz. And I wake. The cold box is talking again. It hurts behind my eyes to listen to the cold box. I try to unplug.

"Willie, stop unplugging the damn Coke machine," said the fat staff man.
"I live here," I try to say but nothing comes out except a long moan and a snot bubble from my nose. They cannot understand me.
"If you leave it alone, I will get you a Coke," the fat staff man says, from his hairy mouth, "You want a Coke, don't you?"
"No, I don't," I attempt and never complete. They think I am stupid. They call me autistic. I understand more than they will ever know. If we only spoke the same language.
"Here, pick what you want," the fat man says. I never pick. They always do.
"How about a strawberry?" the man asks again, trying to pick me up. He likes to pick me up. He likes this because when no one is looking, he drops me. Sometimes he pushes me in the wheelchair. And lets it go. With no driver, I cut into walls and people and carts and doors and beds and chairs. The fat man likes this. His hairy mouth laughs.
And I watch him with the good eye he left for me. He does not leave my sight. He is forever in my bad eye.
And he is laughing.