the ceiling starts to rain

somewhere between tomorrow and my vat of swimming memories I find myself under stage lights for the finale of a musical or opera. though I seem to know my cues and movements I don't remember how it's going to end. the whole ensemble dons long robes flowing heavy with the movement of our limbs. they cover almost every inch of skin below the neck. a dramatic score rumbles from the pit to conjure spirits or the fall of man; a friend nudges me to move upstage to catch my stone. with the looming brass crescendo the ceiling starts to rain rocks: pebbles precede bigger bricks of granite threatening much worse than scratches or bruises on unexpectant eyes. my rock is heavy and nearly sinks me with my knuckles to the floor.

an invisible audience spectates. I hear their gasps in shock as we the players struggle with our falling sky. some of us miss our moment and cannot find our marks. I watch bigger stones and boulders land on heads and shoulders. a chorus of chanting gives way to screams clawing to release the sudden pain of injury and anger. the rocks keep falling. the players start to join them stagnant on the stage and I lose my war against the urge to fly out into the dark. leaping offstage I run through the audience, none of whom can look away from such captivating theatre. the foyer folds into a similarly neon-lit supermarket I don't know but crave escape from into the night. once familiar discopop grates through overhead speakers against my ears to the stomp and howl of some other monster in the labyrinth that cannot help but take my money.

when I escape the minotaur the night is cold and I need to find my way home. passing by the creek instead of bed I wind up looking for a fish. between what I want and what I need I find an ingénue from home knelt at the foot of the stream. her once blonde hair died a dark dirt brown splays a pool around her figure as she talks to the river. I sense there's magic in her gaze and rush away to not be cursed. on the way I hear the water dancing softly to her spells. I wake before I find you.

fish boy

there is something in your eyes

I didn't see until I did

if words would work I'd find the one that this belongs to

though they don't and so I won't

and I am captive to this something

in the waters of the irides

aquamarine

or some other kind of blue

cursed to change a little with the light

the dark

and sensations of your skin (on mine)

fingertips and open lips

your laugh

and other sounds that seas would part for

there is something in your eyes

I think you see it too

if words would work would we will them to our waters?

cast a net into the tank?

are words worth wasting precious time spared for this something and your arms?

I breathe the air between us

you hold my face as though it matters

let me melt into my cotton

rise and fall and melt the same

and I don't know where you came from

but I think I like this fish.

 

to lose my ears

sneaking through forbidden archives in blue light on the plane. I read the texts / our words we trusted time to take. there are curses conjured by the shapes of your name alone. feelings still stir from even the briefest exposure to your pixels. it's a silly kind of poison. your shadow is only ever fingerprints away.

the child in the seat behind me cries on our descent through the clouds. his mother tries to keep him quiet. I hear myself and remember how it felt to lose my ears.

shapes and sounds we teach our children

and I can let the days run over me like water. without stopping to catch a moment / tie it to a page with ink the current is quite capable of taking everything that matters. my pen and paper are my only defenses in the face of forgetting and being forgotten by the spaces between being and not. but sometimes I am too tired. and sometimes the words don't come, or what is / has been remains beyond definition / the scope of any shape or symbol drawn from our lexicon.

words are strings of symbols. we spit them into air and ears and paper in pleas to make sense of a moment / feeling / ourselves. we try to agree about what they mean. but even when they work they are rarely enough. they only matter when we want them to. words are shapes and sounds we teach our children.  feelings are evasive as the clouds. cameras and pens are fickle tools. our minds aren't any better. 

laughter and spit

if I open my eyes to see through the mirror

there are beautiful things in beautiful rooms

when I open my hands to the sky or tomorrow

there is light and dark

dreams open with doors and laughter and spit

then I open my mouth

to taste something new

and remember these songs were never about you

(dream, be, dream again).

floating in the dark

floating on the water off the island in the dark. looking up into the glitter of stars between the gentle leak of city lights I remember I am small and momentary as the ripples passing from my feet and fingers and the algae I can't see. the water is warm and laps over my ears. I look into the night as best I can without my glasses. each dying sun blurs between the mist of artificial counterparts and eyes that fail me in the dark.

I float alone on the mass of movement connecting me to every person on this and every other island on or under water. held between the ocean and another passing night I forget where I am. for a moment I relish my momentary breath of fidelity with our primordial mess. asteroids and waiting rooms and jellyfish and you; new facts and faces every day. how wonderful it is to leave the shore.

too many mirrors

at the bar there are too many mirrors downstairs. every wall is covered in reflection. every shard is dressed in pretty frames that should be housing paintings. the masses stop in passing between bathrooms and another drink as our backstage becomes the epicentre of shared vanities / our apathy / performance. even at our best we can't compare to masterpiece or dream. even at our best can we ever look good enough?