Designer Animator Painter

Actually no one knew anything about it. It wasn’t just that they didn’t know about that 80-story blade, the one that hinged precariously at the apex of the building. They didn’t even know anything about the tower that held it up. The highrises that surrounded it had been designed for the winds at altitude. At their highest levels, passages bored into their hulls prevented gusts from bending them over. In this tilled pasture of tall builds, these were brittle stalks that grew weed-like and were necessarily culled when fingers pointed and councilmen spoke sharply. But this tower, and its sun-glinting steel edge, never wavered. They both shone. The bleak whaled-white of its rounded capsule body blazed white ribbons out and down onto earth. Near the base, where some mammoth handle might have been, the knife planted into the soil. But staring up along its damascus mirror, one seared their eyes easily against its flame-setting and were starkly reminded against identifying it as anything other than a strange simple feature of this place. It was the Golden Gate Bridge or the Burj Khalifa, and it was a real source of pride if one could remember not to ask. But even its searing reflections stopped few from staring, standing in rows along the thin-treed lining of that soft boulevard rolled out beneath it. Only then could you think anything about it, and so it was a kind of pastime, enjoyed without memory in the day’s peak. In fact, the straight edge and its tower, when the sun burned onto the slick steel and stoney hull, lined that boulevard in a kind of kaleidoscopic string of stalled passersby, which, when spied from the street’s eye, appeared as a single body wavering like the smarmy air vortexing off hot pavement. Arms held above the brow became like the slow fins of stationary fish. Their bodies arched in sync until their heads edged behind their heels.Then one by one they would peel off, each in their own way, each forgetting in their own way how precarious it was. Though that snaking skin molted, one scale sliding into place unapologetically under the previous one, it was a fixture as much as the object of its attention. So some stayed, and some spirling scales spun into a teetering brick tenement, others might slide into the moosegrassed canals of the west ward. They lived their lives this way, at once under its spell and hatefully unaware of it. After all, though it did slice and tear magma streaks into the paved way when inside the city, the sun filled too the verdant rounds of undeveloped countryscape nearby. Without gaze, pads of wild lawns lurched upward. They looked themselves just past the silky white tower. And the little bodies that might have stood, snaked and looking up at that tower, could bounce along, just minutes from its shadow, into the pools of light that did not streak and did not cut. It was where the inhabitants of this place remembered quite clearly. They knew the waist-high, wind-slicked grasses that sometimes dipped so kindly into the azure water, bubbling around its tiny swimming green bulbs. They knew well the special geometry of the thick and gnarled bushes of thorny amber flowers that bobbed into each other and they knew the soft angled legs of springing furry creatures, darting and splashing into wet bush and out of spiny pools. They remembered well. They remembered too the animated bricks of the lower city’s homes, and how balconies teased open revealing their sometimes stonefaced friends. They lived there too. That was why they were always staring up at that tower. Or the knife. They did not remember it.

"one of the most frightful muddles I have ever [seen]"

I’d smack a mite like lip shaking celebs do their longtime friends
for life and death, for a chance at bug guts and smelling something
they dance so carefree anyway, what are they so catlike for
bouncing on scored pads and living again after they die
I’d smack a mite, quick-like

Smithing looks like lost drones circling their quarry
Something told me no
Not if there’s no way to make sense
To make a follower of myself
To follow the little sparkflies as they blinked in
And out of that very dark and claustrophobic space
Pin them down without killing them
If you can
But then a dead one gleams a bit

First my head craned backwards to greet a stair-falling mystery, tantamount to the closest I’d ever been to something like that. Stymied by a hesitation that I understand perfectly well, but is quite far from my heart. And anyway I trudge out of the house, who stands aside its mirror and always turns my head as I walk or drive or otherwise go past. I make a point to lose track of time, after another promise I didn’t really mean, although I can’t tell the difference between what I want and what I do because we got this far and its pretty nice anyhow. I’m not out to diminish such an endeavor, after all it has completely illuminated me such that I cannot open my mouth without casting out a great lantern beam and spitting up over the knick-knacked walls and that low sofa someone abandoned. Well, we begin immediately with a dropped message and spiral into the kitchen (the limoncello patches things up), and I’m standing tall and offering my downward gaze until I’m not the one doing the convincing. Three later, although I said two, it’s the picture that cut though the crowd of a previous Saturday and attempting comfort and the previously mentioned sofa. He’s good, better than he is now, but not as good as I thought he was and of course I’m hoping that the world as invented still exists somewhere. Maybe even where I am, if I could say everything all at once all the time so that I’m projecting forward and shitting behind me my own best beatitudes. Well we were already wrapped into each other and somewhat expectant, so it was the first kind of love once again. And it is really is the first. Forgetting and remembering, but really just forgetting to say that you didn’t notice yourself and rolled so softly curled into a lonely kind of satisfaction. But anyway, you’re refusing restitution and rightly so I’d say, but thank you for pressing as preciously as you do and I mean that in the particular, but I trust you’ll turn and burn that image from negative to the press. And I’ll do my best.

You are as big as the ${userWord}. Bright as the ${userWord}... and the infinite ${userWord} will die in radial splendor. ${userWord}time, a master’s simplicity, a 32oz, warmed by the ${userWord}, guzzled. These are sun, made of ${userWord}. But I’m being grandiose, too self-important; and yes, I still think that’s a ${userWord} -sorry, I mean sin. Anyway, the ${userWord} still rises when the drapes come down, and, trust me, I did not want to purchase the drapes. I’m a sap. I’m ${userWord}.

If deja vu is experiencing a moment in a dream and then again in your waking life, which comes first; the dream of the experience or the realization of sameness. It must be the dream. But then, while snoozing, your train begins to float. It has wings now. Great, sweeping, featherless and without the aid of a gust, they lay you adrift. And oh! Fighting across that gooey synapse you discern a comfortless sailor. ‘What on Earth,’ you think to yourself. Earth?.. It’s the ‘get out of town’… Nevertheless, and with supreme force, maritime law reigns. Even here. You see the gleaming street ahead. Touchdown sends the vertical component to gently waver your glossy spine. The same spine that now appears as some hard-nosed dolphin in a fishing net; completely and hopelessly knotted. The trapped, slipped-up schooler is freed by a keen moral eye. Your spine, however, now protrudes, unconcerned, from your corporal sack. Two others beam beside the mariner, oh great, they want a piece of the action. ‘I’ll see you when we surface’ thinking to yourself once more before bending them to primordial wisps. Quiet as a mouse is. But where were we? Ah yes, touchdown. Moon captain. Spine loose. A destined return to the pulsing rail but Newton's mind leaves yours and flies off course, not, of course, leaving the trail of before, only releasing your foul surface temperament. Sorry for explaining the obvious, but each severed thought, once adrift, is yours again when recognized.