point zero six, time to close out.

by Noah Haalilio Solomon

Like

as if each eyeball of mine

(and I have eight of them)

is a glass monocle

skull-screwed, implanted by the politeness of

hairline fractures, cracking in fine lines that are

the hardened fibrosity of bone, forming

around the negative space of an eye socket.

A cave.

A cavern.

.

From here or anywhere

every thing seen convex

the rare sighting of a shadow.

What intrusive little bundles of light

and other shaded grey, there are different opacities

and dominance of attractiveness.

I entertain the others

the others: thieving

planks and with them, grapple

using only eyesight

and the tough stamen of a perennial,

the reminder of ideal fruition/aesthetic:

the lavish opposite of rhetoric.

.

The Act:

shoving lumber with sweaty palms

against itself, grain-to-grain on the grind of grain.

The Risk:

splinter on a 2×4

stained by squid ink and baby powder.

The smell of wet copper, tasting loose change

on the roof of a mouth after

vaulted archways in Renaissance church.

Quenching

caught spray off-kilter

water through rusty spigots,

perspiring water jug

at the peak of summer’s heat wave.

Hiking bronzed athletes bite emptiness,

styrofoam/parched gauze whom,

heave desperate breath.

.

Night befallen,

I’d like to eat the moon and binge on its bigness.

Maybe then I’d ignore what doesn’t work properly anymore around here,

around here.

Like, what of these olfactory membranes,

chapped in dry stale air

again,

a nosebleed, during sleep.

Pillow-case waste,

hot-air blasts and

swath smother;

when will I control the content of my dreams?

When will I inherit my sixth sense?

When will I belong to this galaxy

without the mockery of err?

Advertisements