[bleep] imitation[fractured sins of turnstyles]
out from the concrete pathway running along the edge
of this block of insulated infrastructure component
-
roadway that is my frontyard, these two yards of
intersection precursor. life on display through a single
-
indecision: which way to turn, is the light going to
be green? asleep in my coffin of possession, wall to
wall
-
t-shirts, my two pairs of pants, a heavy coat, a tiny
refridgerator crammed into the space by the head of my

-
to the toilet.
-
moisture hovering the air, an agent of friction, a
residue of slippery faces and accelerated movement. no
one
-
bar, from class to the laundry, from afternoon nap to
rendevous at the cafe, from bad news at the doctor to
-
their lives like demons of discontent.
-
pretend that someone is watching and make tea. set the
soundtrack. adjust the indirect casting of shadows
-
phone to ring and will go meet people who like me so
much and want to spend time with me.
---

as much as i beg for the bulge behind my left temple
to recede, as much as these tiny claustrophobic
mannerisms make me shiver all night long, as much as i
weep at the realization of my delusional dictate, as
much as i know this hole above ground is an open wound
in my mind, and as much as i know the person i
was will never leave here, i love my home and make
plain my love for the passengers.

passengers are the recipients of eye contact.

i took my first passenger eleven months ago, after i
had only just discovered my dwelling. back then i
still
wandered into the aching throb of the city core on
occassion to spin a set at Holiday’s and drown my
synapses in liquid flame. she was probably around
twenty-seven, and looked at me up in the booth with
unquestionable captivation. i was squirting pulpit
love down all over her, and she was completely
destroyed
beneath the weight of the gaze. i was nineteen, and
this, Woman, a considerable physical presence of
lustworthy magnitude, surrendered herself to me from
thirty feet away. i finished my set and she found me

later that night on my walk back to the cave. she
didnt say a word, but was waiting for me outside
Holiday’s
glistening in some second-rate shinjuku-circuit
knockoff, hovering inches away from my face. she took
me
home and told me her stories. they weren’t
particularly interesting stories, but they made her smile to tell them, and her smile was better than any tale she could tell. she talked about her father and the hefty economic significance of his singular enitity in this shuddering city of the future. she talked about her days at the university, but patchwork memory jobs had left this period of her life in an odd manner of disaray, noticably rough around the details where visual static stills had been left to harden between the cracks like epoxy, trapping her in extended pauses surrounding mental images of architecture and advertisement.

she tried to look into my eyes, and began to tremble. her mouth fell open and i finally spoke up, explaining to her kindly that the gravity of my heart could shatter her well-tiled tatami-divisible perspective. she said she loved me and didnt care, she said she would trade it all to have me touch her. we drank wine and i broke the casing of her bedposts, sparks of stadium size sweat bullets breaking beneath my skin and she cried out with the severing of her silverstring boundaries. this woman had no soul, only the greasy celophane wrapper of a spirit consumed by her own desire. for her i became a lightning rod and split the sides of buildings being born.

most passengers think they are drivers. until they see the eyes of an american boy who can bend light and speak japanese. the streets of this city are hallways lined with sagging electrical laundry cords and rowed with narrow doorways that hiss and open when they see you coming. this is where the skies are on fire but the only dragons wear silk ties, with black crystal twenty-six inch monitors stacked fifteen feet high and thirty screens deep to keep a running record while we tally up the scores and listen to the announcer’s banter during this endless rain delay. a theme? life has become bad television.

[[[chris]]]] [nightmares]