Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Mine canary

when you were done you sat on the edge of the bed looking at yr shoes and i dismissed you by closing my eyes but your outline stayed, and a shadow, dark maroon on light maroon. my mind is an instrument that works with or without the input of light and a blind whore once told me a mind will still produce its own color projections-- what, with no optic nerves at all? If they are dead or even missing? This man was completely blind, I had my eyes closed to dismiss you, and yet your shadow was in my mind staring at the floor as if your shoes would walk themselves over and climb onto your feet, and I knew anyway you were still there.

i doubt it's true what we think of as clarity is just a point on a spectrum of perception-- that's hocus pocus; it's bullshit. there is such a thing as seeing clearly, not seeing clearly, seeing but not wanting to see, wanting to see but not seeing. what i saw when i closed my eyes for example was my vanity, my horrible insensitivity toward your innocent fantasies about our love. with my eyes closed i could see you sitting there seeing and not seeing, with your back to me, seeing me better turned away than straining your eyes to look up at my face when yr crouched between my knees. i don't really know what you knew but i can guess from seeing.

i don't even know for sure what drugs you're on or how they might affect the type of functions on a space travelling telescope that go wrong or get enhanced through fine tuning from an earth station or hits by gamma rays or junk or rock and ice mists, whatever it finds beyond the farthest layer of what we can slough off tho not too far to project signals that can travel but few scientists even know i guess if such messages are really matter or just waves of stuff that's already there hopping in a different rhythm from a chain reaction you can make with our advanced machines that supposedly started by smashing bones with different kinds of rock.

clarity and metaphoric light come from all kinds of senses of course, pheromones, the pitching of the voice or when you hear me scratch or sigh at night or how many rings before someone does or does not answer a phone or a pause in texts that someone inside you knows is different even though your main operating persona is officially a sight beast, plain talking, private man who expects everyone to keep their peace on or question their vision at the peril of loss or retribution for the antennae who knew too much and got cocky with their secret knowledge no matter how available it was the whole time; i respect by not thinking much.

For the Chama-Tilly 
Fordamall Chank Motel

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