point zero six, time to close out.
by Noah Haalilio Solomon
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.
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.
shoving lumber with sweaty palms
against itself, grain-to-grain on the grind of grain.
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.
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.
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,
Like, what of these olfactory membranes,
chapped in dry stale air
a nosebleed, during sleep.
hot-air blasts and
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?