the subtle fabric of time

one.  (denimentia)

When you feel it coming, it’ll come like the slow drone of a detuned piano playing minor scales two rooms over.  Discordant notes bang against the plaster walls, bang against the wooden door in a slow pulse that matches the beat of your dying circadian rhythm.  We sat together on granular beaches and watched the corduroy sunset turn to denimentia.  Solitude replicates sanity in its natural fit in your back pocket, so much so that you hardly realize the impending silence that follows you everywhere as the last bits of granular sand drain from deep pockets.  I wonder whether you’ll recognize it when you feel it coming, or whether it will seduce your sense of suspicion into believing it is nothing more than a day or two of lovely lonely air.  Then suddenly when thirteen aluminum cans of carbonated caramel lie discarded to the side of your bed and you’ve mapped the constellations of the southern hemisphere on the roof of your room by sheer will of mind alone, you’ll turn to watch the windows implode in silence out of respect.  Shards of glass dissolve into granular sand on your floor as you watch the sea lap up against your bed, carrying away thirteen aluminum cans, out on the blue sea.  And the corduroy sunset blazes overhead as the piano pounds on the walls as the sea wets your feet and the granular sand fills the shallow pockets of your denim pants while you whisper softly the one sentence you know, the only words you’ve ever known, I will never love again.  And the sun sets and the sun rises and the days pass in seconds, flashes of light and darkness, months passing at epileptic speeds as the air grows cold on your bare arms, night extending over time as the earth turns on its titled axis farther away from the burning sun.  The hammer of the typewriter keys matches the hammer of the piano keys as the minor scale writes a sonnet on the denimentia night sky.

two.  (singularity)

Not unlike when we held hands and twirled strings of flame through the evening atmosphere, this moment is infinite.  Time curves and forms a singularity displayed across our faces as our hands rewrite physics to accommodate hearts with more gravity than planets.  This is why we are alive, I breathe to you.  This is why our time arcs around us like flowing water until we are running down the shore trying to catch the infinitely expanding wall of space until we lose sight, until we stumble stop repeat.  This is why we inhale what we exhale in repeated bursts until all we have and all we will ever have is the same old, same old moment of infinite glory.  Surrendering silently to the pull of the tide, drifting along the beach on the back of a surfboard made of stars and galaxies, feeling the breath drain from our bodies in gasping breaths spanning breadths of time spanning breadths of mind.  The singularity of a moments silent kiss as we sit, silently, breathing the air that the ocean breathes salty, inhaling singularities and exhaling silent white nebulae on the deep midnight sky.  And we turn, hand in hand, facing down the heavens until our torn muscles bleed inside our bodies as we hold on desperately to that last clod of earth that keeps us grounded in humanity.


three.  (synapses)
The howling wind forms lips on wings that follow us around corners and into buildings.  This is the tumultuous tempest that tears limbs out of sockets and throws our tendons into outlets.  There is no alternating current here; only the direct flow of positively negative charges that course through our body like fireflies and light synapses up like cities.  There is no tesla coil wrapped around our necks; only the snapping static of a face charged with electric emotions placed in an insulator vacuum.  The sparks that arc across the nighttime sky like bullets over war torn fields are the sparks of a man who has lost his hand to the frigid cold now wrapped in gauze that holds the static inside it like a rifle.  He reaches out his stump towards the cosmos and touches the stars and cries and there is nothing other than the soft silent sobs and he finds that the last touch is always the hardest and the last touch is always the same and the only movement there is will be the touch that drives you insane.  This is the final lighting of his synapses as the magnetic field pulls the forces apart and bends the bars back over minds, spilling brains out onto tables to feast on like cows regurgitating the curd of their ideas that spark with the positive charge that now lies dashed against ground as he held a rock in his hand against a twenty ton tank in his people’s land.

four.  (the cystic)
Drying up on paper wrappers and tearing holes in your larynx, it’s this cystically systematic measure of worth that leaves white powdered sugar in your nostril.  As if you needed a high to rise up above the status quo.  The oncoming train refrains from blowing the whistle that bristles with energy.  And now, it whispers as it rolls to silence, placid water river frozen over underneath it.  And now, eternity.
You stop and stand, wisplike on the cusp of that horror which reaches white powered tendrils out to carry you down into that heart of darkness that holds no bars on the freedom it takes away from you.  Steel track whispers now scream against asphalt wind, skinning knees raw with blood, bone, and emotion.  And now people as people as places as things as strangers as static are nothing but hurdles to leap across to stand silently in the face of fear that belts obedience out of televisions to kill the Polaroid people as the radio protectors protect us while the soft voice has reached its fevered pitch and you cry out to the tendrils that now, that now eternity has come.

five.  (awakening)

There’s a sound permeating from the plaster walls that seeps across the ground like the cold.  The slow throbbing bass moves the molecules of your bed, a vibration felt in the core of your spine as you wake up, now wrapped up in the lights from the fires of the riots.  This is the moment of free form, the section of time when the world rotates around you for thirty eternal seconds, and the lights in the sky swirl around and burn down the ivy that clings to the world like weeds.  The vibrations continue, and you stand, looking out the window out onto the city, onto the maelstrom of flames, all circling around the sorrow that pulses tectonic rhythm out into the air.  Flames beating upwards, enveloping sky until there is no more atmosphere left to breathe, until your precious stars have suffocated and died, until the universe collapses in on itself, as the Universal displacement reaches zero.  And you, now standing alone, your earth vibrating at it’s universal frequency, clods of humanity dissolving into particles that have no function, no complication.  The dissolving moon loses its hold on the tide, the night dissolving into dream, the vibrating current of time now fractured, puncturing skin and protruding out into the world that functions as humanity functions; the weariness of electric sheep counting sleep fading to the normalcy of feeling your senses function as they were meant to, as you come to realize that of all things, these things you can’t unlearn.