This morning I woke up and saw a silver coin in the sky—I closed my eyes because I knew coins weren’t meant to levitate—it could fall at any moment—I did not want to be blinded—I had a friend who I saw all the time and—the more you see someone the more familiar they become—she became stranger and stranger. I couldn’t recognize her with her new eyebrows—I was scared—I never talked to her again. You should never make your PowerPoint background white is what I’m trying to say.
A woman enters the restroom of a busy café. Eight minutes later a man steps out.
“Out of toilet paper,” he says to a girl.
She nods and turns to the other door.
The man orders an iced latte and pays in cash. The barista takes his money without touching his hands.
“Dirty nails,” he says to his co-worker once the man has left.
Five minutes later another customer uses the restroom.
Five minutes until the scream.
Dead bird(1) spins(2) on a Smiths(3) record(4).
- There are infinite layers of waking, infinite layers of sleep. Peeling inward, mock-flower blooming in the mind.
- The Kaleidoscope is NOT a time machine. It is suspension. Come Spin With Us In The Disco Realm: not all movement is pro/re/gression.
- Sing me to sleep (level T5)
- Silence is louder than white noise. R e p e a t.
There is a blankness within me. A flat plain of subtraction.
I stumble through a forest where the trees are upside down.
The open wound of memory, I do not want your pain.
But I am sponge. I am vacuum.
I am the mouth of an infinite cave.
I will hold your hand until my heart breaks.
04.01.2016 – 12:11 PM
Scrawled on the back of a to-do list
Someone slit open the belly of a bloated cloud. Light poured from its wound, a pool of white on the blue-grey lake. There was a couple sitting by the rocks, shoulder to shoulder. I imagined what it must have been like, surrounded by miles of silence. The last two people on Earth. My focal point you, your focal point me. The rest of the world a blur. The clouds, the light, the lake, the calm.
I didn’t think I’d be able to share my calm. Shoulder to shoulder, hearts in the wind. I’d rush to fill the silence with a blunder of syllables, trip over my tongue.
I wanted to swim to that pool of light. To dive beneath its icy folds, where my body leaves no shadow.
Leave my solitude. This is my pool of light, pool of hope.
A girl once taught me about “grounding”
(I can’t remember who I’m supposed to be)
You list the first colours you see, the first sounds you hear.
(I write to discover who I am)
Yellow. Yellow. Black. Red. Yellow.
Red licorice stripes on the floor.
Ben Hanscom. Red licorice.
Where did my friends go?
They don’t exist here, where our bodies have shadows.
(I don’t remember who I’m supposed to be)
Green. Brown. White. Purple.
Pages flipping. Someone coughing. Footsteps.
Does that belong to me?
List the things around you when your focus starts to blur.
Blue, white, that pool of light.
I pour my thoughts onto this page; light from a wound.
The clouds are so heavy this morning.
(This is who I am)
I told myself not to follow those eyes. Those eyes that convince you you can walk out of quicksand. Those eyes that cradle the moon as if the stars belong within its smoky orbs; they’ll trap you just as easily as they trapped the sky.
I told myself not to follow those lips. Those lips that curl slightly at the corners, making you believe you’re in on some private joke. Those lips that curve like chirography in love letters never sent. Those lying lips that won’t part when you need them to the most.
I told myself not to follow those feet. Those feet that stomp to the rhythm, ask you to come dance. Those feet that made no sound when they came, made no sound when they left. Those running feet that won’t come back, no matter how hard you tap.
I told myself not to follow those eyes. Not to follow those lips. Those feet.
Oh but I did.