Setting an extra place at the table's little trouble, little braided notion of almost, where the bass comes in and its acrylic eventually. The way we twirl into fantasy when it gets hard to speak is what makes us professional hamsters, artists—mercy mercy me, oh things ain't what. Zeus, jesus, or whoever saves us
Talk about strutting. We invented entire dreams around the walk off. Imma throw confetti and chalk at the judges who love me most and sprint backstage with my eyes closed, give the producer a blow job in the wings, cope with the tabloids by singing myself sloppy aesop, only the fables that end in my favor or never, and I'll go home happy and blind, the next night too. Feeling so nice we had to make it twice. And trying to learn how to segue from the absurd to the literal with no pause is a lifestyle. Clarice Lispector. Miles to go. Rubric for quest for light. Annotated silence at the height of its sigh. That's the part where she would bring up her driver or the way the beach feels on winter skin, and turn the sand into quartz, and turn the quartz into her father, and turn her father inside out, find a wave of Porsches there, a whole parking lot full of his cars with keys in the ignition and talk about the significance of the color red in black and white, how you can still tell those cars are red. How communication transcends its own will to hide and then all the cars drive themselves into the only oblivion they ever felt and the commercial glows finite, loadstar, ting of silver on gold grills in the marshall law and lawless background, softer. A greedy sound the word extra makes, a gritty, pleasing sound it tugs out of us and traps in possibility.
