Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Feeling More


Sometimes a dream will start it, like
Fyodor Dostoyevsky played by John Joseph
"Jack" Nicholson, the camera moves up from
behind while he's writing, no sitting, it's perfect.
You sit there sad but interested in the lovely theater
wearing one of your seven velvet suits and your
round gold-rimmed glasses, but when you look
down into the popcorn bag, you see your
hands are dissolved into oriental feuillemorte,
their incorrect contours spreading at the pace
of the movie's writhing thexit. You are
changing physically to endure it, and if
the seats are streets and you are the highly
hovering herald above dark faux-distical
sleepers, well, velvet could be made
from fields of crab eyes, their wavering
schitzopodal grain a fibriform figurette,
a silver inlaid upon sun's toil, grace-blind
the dream upon toyings' thinkery, the
watchmaker's carapace through a window
of gelatin. Sometimes a clear gelatin centaur
will start it, pulling song across the prairie.