ronocuous
influx, outlet. massive pillars extend from, sink into. the cilia beats and particles are pulled into the current by the swarm.
condensed air in a catacomb, I'm gasping for breath and clutching the door of a tomb. my eyes roll back as I fall, hand sliding down the bark, and in the last instant of my blurred and fainting vision, I see a branch bursting through the wall. collapsing, my face hits the floor and it splashes me awake. I spit a foul taste from my mouth, wipe slime from my eyes and look around. the doors lining the underground graveyard, the statues of mythological beasts meant to look after the dead, the darkness of the catacomb, they've been replaced by trees and the cloud covered, dingy gray of an afternoon in a bog. so it's happening again, is it?
mouth hanging open, as wide as the screen door, as stillness settles over the landscape. what dream were we pulled from, why now do our hands shake? the slow-motion descent of snow flakes. the thought of reality being slowly unraveled beneath us.
and then we remember the reason we chose to (overdose to) forget. that's not snow at all, but ash. in fact, it's july. but you wouldn't know from the sky.
such forced expression, depressions in the mold. the crystalline succession of water freezing cold. wandering through the symmetry of a cemetery, streetlights are foggy orbs of incandescence failing to illuminate the ground and only serving to make deep shadows darker.
below bullet holes before they exist, but only just before.
to circumstance, color scheme or random chance. to living in your grandparents' basement, to not having a mother, to winter in Michigan, and the idea that you aren't leaving any time soon.
between my eyelids, an infinite space expands. an ever increasing scope of vision; beyond peripheral, beyond your wide screen television. and as it battles with shadows, it is also fighting with light. because the only comforting place to be, is on the edge of dusk.
white sheets hang over works in progress, flapping lazily in the wind. as casts of statues explode, birds erupt from their pigeon holes and synchronize with a swarm of bullets and shattered pieces of plaster.
theories of sweaters, a rapturous unraveling. vibrations excite the string you're composed of. a billion chords in unison, humming, produce sound in a vacuum only heard by your impossible molecules, the velocity of ossicles rising.
and there are kittens displayed playing with a ball of yarn that loops around your side and ties into the stitching of the very sweater you're wearing.
You watch Main Street writhing, frothing at its cavity filled, gutter-lined mouth. Plaque builds, the amorphous red plague. Bits of elephant ear smeared paper plates, dog shit, crushed styrofoam cups, plastic bags, and cans of Budweiser, all of these things smiling back at you, caught like spinach in the teeth of your hometown. And the dentist's office burned down two years ago. And now the dollar store you walked to from your childhood home is a liquor store. And they're building a Wal-Mart in a field where horses used to run. And you can't leave this place anymore without feeling as if you've contracted a disease, or that you're carrying a burden away from it, or that a device has been implanted within the folds of your brain, but whatever it is, the feeling carries the same ominous weight as that of a storm cloud steadily approaching above either an endless desert or an ocean of omnipresence.
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writing since 2009 · 69 entries · 65 days shown up
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