All of those solid lost moments
All of those solid lost moments, all of the wide open eyes laying beneath bury you from below. You are burdened and pulled down but forever afloat. The tension on your lungs and your heart from inside pull them away from the slow current forward, downward, constricting their chambers and sacs through the nagging weight of trifling thoughts and complexes until they are crushed from within or pulled to pieces floating alongside the unforgettable slipstreams of guilt. You breathe laboriously. But the slight fragments of you are not guilty, nor are you, now. When you drown you will be free. With the burden above you, so clear then, with fragments of objects and scenarios from a desperately recent past aligning in the thickness of the lagoon to create a perfect window out to the unlit and starless sky. All day you drown and every night you spit out the humours and misdeeds that clog your chest, run down your shirt, and fill your shoes. Out on the sidewalk or in the weeds and dust you arrange, quantify, and recall the clots of mess that have flowed back into the coloured currents roiling upward against the falling tide, where they collect strange notions that discourage recollection or closure, or absolution. All night you drown in those confusing or stolen planted memories. The horizon where dawn cowers sits fixed from you and you fixed upon it.
The humid electric air is thick and your body disappears within it. The solidity and stability of every edge of you rattles with tingling grog and escape. Sleep in the warm bath of night. Let emptiness of your body, between all of its lost nodes, swell with warm wet steam and evaporating blood. You fill with water and sink in pieces, perhaps. The only solid things in a vapourous night fall alone through the refracted moon and distant green kitchen light. You rise to condense on windows and mirrors with dusky steam for a body.
