Gridded nights
Why do we dream the same thing?
Moonlight casting a pyramid into the sky. Heavenly bodies. What troublesome and ecstatic realities we are living in. Quasi-realities: in this community catalogued into the cyber. Analog—appraise the time. Here is the picture. And another one. A singular note. Static, blurred purposely by the latest film setting, grain effect high, fading blue. One instance to wish upon the same thing is called Mimetic. Second is called Magic. Third is then Manipulation. I disembowel this everything, this every-possibility. I am left with an endless panel of bolts, knobs, and panels to affect plurality upon this dreamstate. Where are we? Here. Look the truth—I must uncover what my cat sees.
It’s this notion that individuality is a set of visual differences, immediate, and easy to the eyes (a borrowing from Vincenzo Latronico). Itemized overgrowth. The first thing in the morning: I think I’m fossilizing, dissolving into wax. Impossibly the same. Sequence to June, where the days are long and languid, but intensely finite. There is some room left in my stomach, I preview. I wish to be stuffed with ice. There is some more coffee left in the pot but instead I watch it go down the drain.
Could it be—that someone is watching, my own narrative voice from beyond, like a bird? Am I the transmission of my eternal becoming? In the mirror I see the reflection of three tenses. One a child, second a stranger, third a mime. In a few minutes, the traffic lights will turn green and the cars will rumble down the silver concrete, like yesterday.
In my dream the icebergs melt, and I begin my hike, presumably out of order. Out of necessity, which is to say the green has already begun showing, webbing out dusk and tears, in rapid, cinematic acts. I think I’m somewhere in Massachusetts because I see a waterfall in the horizon. The mist sprays.
I ask, how real am I? With all the postmodern and sincere glare of the bones and ligaments, reflecting one-dimensionally, earnestly studied and copied. The plastic cursing in my blood. The generic upgrading. The accidental downgrading. I rub my elbow against the door then let my arm fall. Who is to say that I am not crucified inside a museum, dreaming the same gridded night.