amygdala
So you go to the Twin Towers and on the way out you need something to give, something to show that you were there in NYC, sooo you bought that little 6" statue, never even thinking that someday it would be more than just a trinket.
You're free insofar as you can choose any cage you like. We're all prisoners in this world. So say the servers of shit sandwiches. They'd really love it if you'd take a bite, too. It's important to them. It makes them feel better about what they've eaten.
A burgundy blush, a bright red bloom. Right in the cleavage. Into the valley of death he flew. He hit the spot, I hit his spot, on at least two levels. *Ich bin der Welt um ihn*, so bad karma for me, but hey, it must be nice not to have to be a fucking mosquito anymore.
Your hair-wilting aftershave. Your talent for making a sandwich from *anything*. Your oak-leaf tattooed neck. Your musky white shirts, your perpetually missing buttons, your soft waist, your hard shoulders, your shrapnel scars, your love for pickles and fried tomatoes and chili-dogs. It's not those I miss. It's loving them I miss.
Orange traffic cones around the muddy hole they dug. They left their orange hats in the truck. They're still wearing their orange vests. Sitting in my booth in section six. They want orange juice. And eggs. And bacon, burn it a little. They like it like that.
That one makes you bigger, this one makes you smaller, but *this* one makes you both. This one you live in, and this one lives in *you*. This one makes you solid, this one makes you melt, drink too much of *this* one and you'll blow away in the wind. Yeah, the labels are all the same. Don't look at the labels. Look at what's inside. Listen. Do you want to do this, or not?
The story goes like this: a man finds a murdered woman by a rushing stream. He makes her body into a fiddle of bone, strung with her golden hair. In some versions the fiddle names her murderer when played. In others the fiddle breaks and the woman reappears, alive and unharmed.
In the true version, the fiddle screamed.
The flash, the moment it became real, over and over and over. The cries of the people, looking up. The jumpers. The collapse. A woman's shoe, lying in the dust.
You learned that time stops at the edge of a black hole. Loop the footage, and the footage loops you, too.
An orgami swan, made of words. Fold and unfold words in real time. You can't touch time, it's beyond your reach, but your words can shape it, tie it to human beings and the places that they live and the things that they do.
Do it right. Be invisible. It's the swan they want. Not you.
A pin in a butterfly. The scratchy and supercilious comfort of labels.
But it's the butterfly that matters, not your fucking pin. It will always remain beyond your reach, this mystery, fluttering on the wild edges of a world invisible to the likes of you.
Mocking you? No. It doesn't give a damn about you.
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writing since 2011 · 32 entries · 32 days shown up
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the words amygdala reaches for
desirewordsbodylinefiddleorangeworkfullstopbehinddonevaporslivehookbeyondlabels