Character Sketch

Liquid blue night, no beginning, tall grass reflect blue back
to light
Or void silky swimming in breathing in ebonite
dust paste
Moments and time are solid projectiles through oilsoaked
submerge cloak.
Rapid typewriter eyes readjusting focus that dodges
clarity of space of solidified confused desolation.
Real time was fresh air and was replay veiled in loose suspended matter.

Projection in relentless flickering weakening tongues
from walls
white when we turn white.
When pink is seen as grey
a hygienic solitude pulls apart space
with light, slice of horizontal mini blind deepening dust orange
afternoons oblique rays of pausing dust stirred no movement.
Panning eyes setting seeing so.

This yellowed orange servant submits
eyes down brown, cast red chapped, and we, happy couples drinking coffee.
Hers were glasses thick in coated with grease
glare skin
focus changing, fifty points on the eye per second changing
grease coated reflections yellow booth chambers to order of
parking lot inscribed to smear of the highway to ink night to cross out all of this.

This glass prism filled
with milky thick light floating within loose light scribes then
red alternate across a grid projection against surface then
diffused but distinctly legible then registration and accepting slow shrug.
Yellow tile squares pile brown grout traces
gridding off portions of people into scattered, smothered, covered
neatly comfortable, made almost digestible.

From within I saw segmented views of brown stone mountain
which is inside, moving for real, which is smiling
across not space smeared both across pane layer on layer of
distorting uneven brushstrokes.
Again she lived yellow dignity slick flat quick space
containing projected action. Scanning on my eyes surfaces
faster than she lived the coupling flicker,
red faced squinty eyed standing depression.
For eight minutes was fresh air in hand compressed forty seconds.

Not that her life was
at all, but it certainly was reconstituted, substanceless, again unsuitable,
to be viewed in sunset blinds make orange rooms with grey air,
how we would want how heavy the air gets at four PM.

It’s four somewhere prosthetic experience pulls
lifes experience out through fast forward into
quick colorless sunlight.
This morning rose and is as we can expect.

See through skins in the dark the smeared of plate glass
for behind glass no color where pink quickly now grey somehow
and wanting to be there in the cold California backyard again and again
when somehow I break through the membrane is
only the severe order of parked cars and the artery beyond
where home floats.

Critical Response:

« | »