Even though we straddle the dictionary without bias, lexicons remain immaterial. Would that our children grow up to be intellectuals would they rely on description, detail, and tactile objects to determine their frame of reference?
Would that we were all critical thinkers would I still fly across oceans in which the salt had been leached?
She says, “Don’t you say those words again.”
It’s autumn here. Summer has decided to auto-extend for six weeks.
The first year of our relationship was filled with improvised explosive devices.
The second year, a shower of limbs.
The third year we discovered hybrids and became synchronically derived.
“I’m much better than you remember.”
Overheard at the five and dime: Yo me cuido a mí mismo.
The woman behind the counter has one question and one question only. Bone or skin? Skin or tissue? Tissue or capillary?
Overheard at the skinhead rally: I’ve never read Ashberry. Or Silliman. Or Scalapino. How many years has it been?
I tell her, “Literacy is not what concerns us here. Besides, the books are what got us into trouble in the first place.” A sequence of finely dressed ladies trying not to lose a single word.
It is impossible to not oversimplify things. The fourth year and again in the fifth, we found a way to integrate iodine vapors. The sixth, was for nothing more than the manipulation of feedback. One can not cast doubt on the slam dunk champion. Another cannot continue to transform dusty objects into gold.
And what’s this? Where are we at now? Year seven? Eight? Fourteen? Back then, we knew how to count forward and backwards simultaneously. We never read for pleasure or to increase the opacity of shadows.
I find my work in a journal paired next to an author who supports the increase of data parameters. Another author crafts emoticons that represent acts of a perverse sexual nature.
“The sun is predictable, but misleads the public.”
But on this one point I’ve been sworn to silence.
She says, “What you really crave is the brine of bony girlfriends. What you really want is a more viable option for drinking water.”
“That’s not true. What I really want is to consume while I am still firm. I want my thirst to be preserved by wood. Scattered by winds.”
To remember one must replicate the texture of velour. To forget one must identify long range objects with the dominant eye. Several hundred words are not enough.
We insist on the removal of familiar details from the story. Including: The place where it all happened. And also. The place where it didn’t.