Sure there are followers. An elusive audience out there. Beyond. We lost Proust and the apartment quivers itself upset, down.
We’ve green eyes and are glowing from the inside like swallowed fireworks. the soft ones. Gentle little pops where explosions once reigned. Even the trees lean in to hear our derisive pillow talk. I heard them croak and groan outside and got spooked.

Do we dominate our thoughts of death or do they control us? What if.. You are cutting off the city bus passively in a different way. The driver honks and yells curses– inconvenience of mangled glass and bent metal– if traffic is memorable we should hop into the bath tub with knives immediately. Or the belt by the rafters. Others have mysterious ways that take 50 years to enact. A calendar date heart attack – hold my calls.
Wine smeared smile or a jump for joy when a carnival caught fire and a tent took off like a parasol under helium, bridges with archways that maze through a watery city and hard shells bounce or ricochet- depend on convex shape of mirror lens over the (blank) of it all with a shock collar buzzing every time someone mentions alcohol in casual, rather than dire, circumstances.
Someone singing in the backyard. Floating bones up from gravitational center.
Pyramid built fears all piled up rocks until structure and meaning can be.
Hiccups from the gin soaked bathroom and the scissors fly through the hair like little doves flitting about carrying lace down from a marigold river bed, or the glacial till that produces exquisite cold filtered whiskey.
Sure there are followers. At the gates with bricks. Pitch forks and burning torches yelling 40 languages in a delirious blur like an avalanche. Elements from high ground mixing with foot hills in a tumble down tumult. Drops all fragile things- all the sentimental objects from the height of a back lit glass eyed window room. That’s it. Glass-eyed. Drunk-eyed is rude. Glossed over yeux when yer lids relaxed. Ma petite-amie. le jazz.
The followers are shadows. Not human. Are you human? Do you have any desire to interact with me as humans do? Language this dense is what separates us from other species. Moreso than intelligence. I hear a hurrumph! from the science district… “Language is intellect… they are inseparable like pancakes and syrup…”
Why not speak to me? Well, none of us reach out. Only for our defining sexual characteristics when alone and unashamed or the bottle. whatever bottle. cold turkey before the trip. wild turkey.
We pretend friends and dissipate. Move on. Different city in mind when looking at the tan/red brick buildings on the University of Washington campus. Thinking of you, Tempe. Your sky an infinite blinding blue. The buildings colorless. The ground red/tan and dusty. Muted light shades of green in tangles along the road. Called brush. Easy for fires. Lost where I am to go on from. Lost where I am from but I know the intent to move forward. Lost my car keys.

Forward motions are mimicry to an old version of myself, less bleary eyes and more true to form. The body as a form. A statue with ambitious pose, chin up, legs in stride, solid directional purpose; anywhere and quickly. Now? Attempt to force pieces of incongruous shapes into slots of defined edges.
Followers. Myself included. Though I’m tangled up. I see behind myself in the mirror. No pores or blemish. Just a world outside and behind. Past. Wide and yawning like the mouth of mother tiger. It might be regret that I never became the shadow for anyone. I barely cast a shadow. I am nocturnal. Streep lamps muddle the shadow with those of the buildings and lowly brush or are they evergreens? Is this a desert oasis in the second tier of hell? A conservative family dinner rampant with denial of consequence in Topanga? Or a northwest wasteland – flannel and summer dresses and mountains mixed with clouds. Are you there, friends? Do you call yourself that or is it all mist. The horizon swallows mist. scotch mist.
Depression is a declarative statement.


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