I want more of the same,
Nothing new, nothing old
A familiar pattern, consistent movements
An old melody, ambient and heavy
A sudden tug and I’m lying flat on burning cement
Another tug and my eyelids have fallen—
I have no imagination,
My mind sketches a photograph
transposing lines, canceling dimensions
transmitting a landscape but not perceiving it.
I squeeze one eye shut, I hold my pen up flat, I try to forget the subject—
All I see is the page
It’s all that matters but I’m not allowed to look at it,
I must suspend disbelief.
I hate to be a cynic,
I pick it up, I put it back down
I must remember not to fixate
I must not invest, I must not decide
My glance must flit, my pace must be brisk—
What is this warmth?
My jacket is tight around the shoulders
And my mouth feels like a womb,
Empty and inhospitable.
If you took your index finger and pressed into my forehead,
You would make a dent,
Keep pushing, put your eye in the socket—
How does that sound?