The Poem in Green on Eve's Wall


once i dreamed i was a small, small being inside an enormous shell by the ocean . . . rubbing the salty pink-and-beige walls dirty with the crust of human habitation. once, i thought i shouted; i said one thing and felt another. the falsification was in one or the other, though i'm not sure which. an echo bounced cleanly off the untouched walls higher in the shell, where i had not had the strength in my meaty arms to push the spiral sideways and live above myself. or below myself. you can't get much lower than the edge, but the line becomes ambiguous when you change your surrounding perspective. i see in my dream the light above, light obscure grey-white, the color of a cloudy day by the sea. sounds float in -- eddie vedder crooning inexplicable and ununderstandable, unanswereable mutterings over the edge. nothing echoes in that voice. i switch verb tenses, i swapped verb tense. i felt intangibe waiting for something. that air was telling me something. for the first time i wondered how to get out.

lightning struck after a bit, but it wasn't worrisome lightning--i think it tore a patch out of the sea, and was silenced. rain fell. i began to float out of my shell on water like crystal-colored marshmellows. once i reached the top, i looked down at the empty air itself. i flew. someone humming a bluesy song passed with dark feet, bare and possessing a quality without a name but meaning approximately and specifically beautiful foot; their hands were skipping rocks.

i traveled inland among grasses, ownerless, scattered with natural seed. under the watch of night i watched the stars turn, fade, and appear. i guess i was there a long time. i do not remember the sun. we are not well acquainted. a beetle dragged itself through loose dirt and drew a golden ratio, somewhere outside of gravity and bound to the earth with love.

a smooth wall of green-stained church, lit by lights shining uselessly towards heaven, alerts me to a town, a large city. warm nods of heads from familiar faces greet me at the door of an automobile. "come in." a comfortable, warm night spent in conversation. 'lost highway' was very good in theatres, and we took turns in the front seats watching the road roll under us. we drove over the median to see that yellow line disappear in hypnotic and strangely attractive, comforting repetitions. amber streetlights have been killed by signs reading "eat at jack's" and "highland cleaners" and "electric ladyland". late traffic is thick enough to reduce speed but offers no struggle. the sound of keys in the ignition clicking against other keys signals a red light, and the brightness of overhead lights signals goodbye.

now walking into gravel and smelling a warm parking lot, i know you know it too, treading the reedy darkness and disappearing yourself into oblivion, that occured to me. there was nothing i could do about it. among my thoughts, i walked into a zoo and came up facing a leopard. one can imagine us looking into one another's eyes. we looked without danger but without a shift in power, until we faded to black and i woke up as if i had blinked.


Issue 13:
Intro
Culled From Notebooks
chimera slavery
The Poem in Green on Eve's Wall
Quotes
Fever Dream
Tectonics Catastrophe
Back to Negative SixX
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