The steel grey, the reflective wrapped teal, the honey, and a creeking

If the temperature and time are just right: 58 degrees, slight breeze, no humidity, the waning sunset,  the bike disappears and you are flying.

(Actually, the universe is shaped exactly like a human, and we are living in the fingertips.)

Oliver Sachs

These visions like present tense dreams, forgotten and hazy as they happen:

Sitting speechless, looking away, a face tremulous and raging indigo. The bus riders' eyes bulging in unison. The spine of a fish, laid out in two dimensions, outlined in neon yellow, weeping softly behind the plate of glass. We are all waiting for the concluding statement, the one that makes sense of all of this. We do not realize that this, too, has already passed:

"Pterodactyl."
"Pterodactyl."
"Pterodactyl!"
MWAW.

And we are matter. We are compacted energy. And we are matter, mattering.

I do not think 't

All of the sounds at once. Every leaf blower. Every dish washer. Every motorcycle acceleration. Every grocery store check out scanner. Every conversation.

So that there are no more tangents.

Nature

I am watching nature on television. Carnivorous caterpillars devouring flies. Giant sea eagles, wings like eruptions, plucking birds from the air. Male grouper swarming through clouds of eggs to fertilize, but distracted, not seeing the sharks.

I am watching nature on television. Enormous seals fighting for air holes. The wolverine dragging an elk leg to its nest. Fresh water eels growing up, being eaten.

It, devouring me.

35

It has been:
16 years since I sat in a pizza parlour drinking shots with first names until I threw up.
29 years since backyard relay races and goodie bags.
5 years since I sang karaoke with a spider costume on.
8 years since she blindfolded me and drove me to a cornfield and then a castle.

Forgotten Narratives Part 2

In case you were wondering, the world actually ended last year, and we are now in those last remaining flashes of light, the last gasps of air, the few flickers of vision before it all goes black. Throes. Spasms. Contortions. It is an illusion, like the chicken's head on the ground, detached by the farmer's axe, watching her own body run around the yard for a few more laps, wondering "What...is...that?" before the last spills of life blood drain from her neck. A painless, final, hallucinatory reality.

And all of these pieces fit to prove it: the deer on its hind legs, reaching for leaves, its antlers too new to fall off, stretching over the wire fence, the neon green women running, a coyote in the middle of their pack, dazed but unafraid, accustomed to the sounds of Nike Plus.

Those beings, now: An order.
The Deer eats the Leaves,
the Coyote stalks the Deer,
the Neon Pack consumes it all:
Everything in its path.

And our long shadows stretch out before us.

Our tears of joy are not because we are happy, but because we long for a happiness that has passed and we can no longer grasp. The child near the river, jumping at the sight of the lizard he's only seen in pictures, his squeals convulsive and involuntary, (and down, off to the left, the sun's sharp whiteness rebounds off the river) the lizard calm, the father's hand just there, just grazing his shoulder to say go ahead, reach, son reach, but to to say I'm here I'm here here if you need me son son as he reaches down son to new reality too too new real.

A joy I can't understand, a joy I can't hope to even remember, tears of joy.

And our long shadows stretch out before us.