The Way It Started
Somebody whispered once into my ear. It was
one of those afternoons and I felt like making
mischief of expectations. Have I succeeded
I wondered aloud to the absence left by the
whisperer. You know people do not appreciate
mischief a nearby tree seemed to say as wind
shifted its dainty branches. But how does wind
do anything I thought as I paused allowing
the whisper further into my bones. At the apex
of this I fell asleep and imagined dreaming of
waking reconfigured so that each aspect of myself
differed even as I remained entirely the same
person. This is very strange I thought after really
waking as my voice came from my own mouth.
The Life of the Moon
Plastic is the heart of her face. Confession falls
through providences of wonder until the days
feel larger than they could be. Time is a mouth
with terrible arms for jaws and anybody falling
asleep falls into them. There is data crashing
while we are napping in overalls and blazers. If
plastic is all she is we are as safe as imagination
allows despite finding more liquid than anything.
Anything applied to a plastic heart extends the
story backward into yesterday. Yesterday tastes
like the meat of fruit pulsing under its own kind
of skin. Remember yesterday pleads while peeling
your present from surrounding air that glamour
is an insult to everything you desire being or are.
Sometimes I think I know what others want
me to say. Then I come back to myself and
the knowledge that I do not know refills me.
Others are big or small depending : the same
as I am. The earth turns and it feels natural.
In memory the case in the foyer of the library
of childhood is filled with important or even
magical things or artifacts. Where did they
come from I could ask if I were capable of
daring. The earth turns still more turns as if
ready to fall off the table. What if space is the
flat thing. What if sensory capacity. What if
the heart. I know I am an animal from the
inside out. My trimmed fingernails are more
than remnants. My blunt teeth : refinements.