the hills sang from mouths that were half-overgrown with lichen and moss. trees were in number along the ridge. down from the hawk nest in the tall pine, sloping at degrees from its point of departure, the sound of it wafted. the mouth of a cave with its wetness and teeth. the tongue of the cave sliding back along the glands. a tonal pitch of some vocal expression without larynx or throat only a thousand small openings spread over the terrain in ditches and swamps and marshes.
on the way home, on my couch, a mystery, a gaping hole through which i stepped. it seemed that science or nature, a combination, a conspiracy, had coalesced, had concocted a plan. i felt it like a large mantis over my shoulder, in the sky, hovering. the thought or idea of it, deciding. something with claws pondering my plight. what happens in that brain, insect the size of a 4-story Macy's with a bargain basement, escalators running up and down between? myths, plans, stratagems, diadems. i'm ordinary; i ordinate myself.
there are no stars for none exist except behind the page. i see people walking around with their heads attached to their bodies, stuck on. their eyes are not open; they are filled with caviar eggs. the crystalline black jewels are horded in the sockets. my eyes watch them, people, my eyeballs like clear glass marbles. everything is cold and smooth and falling down long flights of stairs. the clattering of something broken. i have a telescope and binoculars and a microscope and a magnifying glass, and i am looking through each in turn, one focused through the lens of the next trying to reach the furthest, outermost vision. and beyond, after everything stops and the curtains close, the stars begin to shine. one large star encompassing everything in its immaculate purity.
the cement was a color; it consisted of colors. a dead spider's body was being blown across its surface. there were cigarette butts and fallen flower petals. shadows sometimes were cast. some of the shadows were in the shape of things.
i felt suddenly thrust to the outside of things. i felt the vertigo of looking at myself from a great height. i could no longer make anything or do or decide or be or have. i was not the center of the universe. or, if i was, i was not inside myself. i didn't feel contained by my body and everything i did no longer emanated from me but clung to my body coating it. i was outside of myself and outside of everything. i saw that nothing mattered and everything was small. i couldn't breathe; i was afraid; i couldn't handle it. i recessed further and further, my brain trying to expand to encapsulate it all. but i broke through. there was a wooden horse with a dowel through drilled holes in its head. rubber hand grips at the tips.
walking, outside, everything around you, surrounding you; you are in it. my feet hit the sidewalk again & again. something falls out of a tree, its back arched downward, arms still reaching out for the lost limb. i can't find the escape hatch, the safety switch. flashes of reality blinking on the inside of my eyelids. my arms are outstretched in front of me like a somnambulist or superman. i want to grab it, pull it towards myself - everything.
the brilliancy of the skin reflecting shimmery - it was a sheen of sweat - gloss of the pores. white flesh like a flashbulb. light rising making deft half circles of ankle rotations. little pale hairs coming out of (protruding from) the surface of the skin in fair waves. an ocean crashing upon foreign shores. the four oars in eyelets clasped clanking, rowing o'er. my skin like a mast, stretched in wind, catching. my body flayed by the casting rays, pulled over the ribs of my self-made boat, i transport, support, contain.
clouds, my hands. running down the middle of the street w/ no cars, only a gang of teenage boys chasing me. some of them had rocks. i was not a good runner. there was sweat on my forehead pouring into my eyes. i remember the hammer. the claw end of thor. everything quickly settled down. the husk of a shelled insect. you can smell them hiding inside the walls. clouds like mountain ranges. i started on a long path up into the foothills. my hands clamoring over the coarse rocks were bloody. the bicycle tire circling its own zero.
i am sleeping & the green of the leaves of trees is still, unmoving, detached from its source. the green of the leaves leaves the leaf as the tree stood still in the wind. it is driving past, the wind, carrying the tree & its branches & its leaves w/ it, but not the green. the green stays, in the same shape of the tree's leaves, after it has left. & i am gone as well.
the sky, a vast flat plane w/ occasional dreams projected on it. i see myself reflected upon that screen, amplified so that my face's surface stretches across the horizon. someone is throwing a stick at the sky, trying to tear open my face. i am watching them, wanting them to. i see the stick come closer, but it never reaches me.
I write short stories. This is my blog. I'm going to write whatever.