(Day 0)

Math, math, math, math, math, maths. We’re now past the vanishing point and into an aftermath. At first, there’s a fold in the sky. Next, a ghost in the leaves. Finally, a letter. Irradiated wrapping paper dressing up an SOS. My letters fasten lightning rods to our new syntax.

 

Flat induction antennae. Flat interception umbrellas. Hand-to-hand town. Butterfly more building than. Bottle-at-sea-with-a-handgun-inside.

 

Communication has become the echo of dissolving planets. Skirt-plummet green. Endgame-white tonguekiss. I design colors for things that don’t have any. Navy blue half-days, salty-red heat spikes, Jurassic-pink rain delays. I distill younger, northeastern summers into lists. Pinecone, Sno-cone, skateboard, comic books, hand job. Glue sticks, warm buzz, laser light, tunnel-fort. Heliotrope extremophile, ocean-trench hand gesture. Dear brand new mainline, dear sentient style, I miss you in the tendons and find you in the absence thereof.

Freeze-frame

 

hear their perfect parasol diction
in the bluster

[          ]

 

and know

 

[          ]

 

      that they are building you—
a better you.

fevertree
hung

                  from
your mind.

 

film stock     and grain

blow through my face,
       turn hair

into math.

 

it might as well be dusk you say it stands for
dusk all this stands for fire for fire at dusk.

---

Art Information:

• "Bottle-at-sea-with-a-handgun" © Marco Maisto; used by permission.
• "Fireswallow" © L. Margaret Galey [3]; used by permission.