Syntax
1 for joy and 0 for everything else. Do you understand
what brought you here? Was it the light or the absence
of light? The man or what he did. There is a way to measure
these things. A syntax. But once you have been touched
you cannot be anything else. Wallpaper or plastic.
Think back. A lady in nice clothes reads out a list of terrible things and
one of these belongs to you. Like all beasts
you must name it before it can die. The logic of hurt is a very long line.
Now, who said that, Job or Micheal? Well which one
was holding the gun? I cannot draw you a map, but here is what
I had for breakfast: Coffee. Bread. Here is every word that
has ever made me cry: Hello. Here. No. I.
I’m forgetting something. It has to do with Sunday. We stood
in the kitchen forcing the life back into birds from the window
and then everything goes dark.
But now I am just telling stories. I want a truth
I can chew on. Above us, Mercury, but what is up? On the
wider scale everything is in parallel. Horizontal, even to time.
I am tired of this story, give me yours and I will write it down.
What happened here? I will point to your arm. To your ribs.
To the edges of your throat. What happened? Does it hurt
when I do this? Here are my hands, where you can
see them. Touch is a word. Want is.