By Ryan Solot
Let me preface the CRUNCH with,
‘What we are doing is exactly with it’
oh Hi hello good lover and relative and good oh Hi hello, what you are doing is exact,
I met a Fellow yesterday who was wondering what I was doing more than I am right now. The cages I heard clanking was the first harmonious greeting I’ve encountered since entering this city and with the cheese in everyone’s face I couldn’t help but notice the magnitude of pressure the rough draft had on us. There were papers of course – mostly bible pages, one for each ‘Put Together’ trying to achieve my eye contact, in time spent yawning under an awning like we were still the same sentence. As I walked on down the lit signs, a prominent gap that lay in between my tread and the floor began to weigh on me. “Oh don’t look up, you know where you are” I heard like the line I saw, and the worm as a pretzel at the end, for when I contradicted this utterance it was the last thing I knew.
So nice to finally commit to the lifestyle but I didn’t expect it to look like the outpatient glitter-bomb wedding inside my mouth, swinging from my uvula like a newly broken in family, afraid of the Grandfather Clock. I couldn’t see. But anyway the curb was high and our company didn’t feel too much like dancing. Oh well away they went, having met them earlier that night – I had just carried on with the remaining eminence from before, this time pointing out the small snakes etching smooth trails in the now increasingly sponge-shaped sidewalk; all these craters reminding me of home. You think I could talk to the carrot-having, bowler hat man, heavily inclined with the typewriter like clockwork exposed to us; a lens never trusty to the ghosts of glare, livid to sharpness in their bright orange, pastel green and opacities of white light. I couldn’t feel comfortable in the loose ‘sun with no light’ tangerine house, fresh with dust in my patience of declining being “chosen”. How much more can we lead ourselves on with our oppressive interpretations of these allegories. If little titan man went to the moon not only did she really, but so did you! You read the words, they have to mean something somewhere as they mean nothing somewhere else.
Too cute, now I remember why I started this dialogue. I want to remember you again, show you the lines in the floor of the place I’ve been sleeping in for the past 10 months like a quarry worker. To show you that I’ve been reading a silly book and need to put my arms around the coathanger in the closet, marching our 2 by 4 waltz onto the instance of gradual remembrance. I saw it then with a ‘huh okay’ and picked up the posterior weight of, “Oh yes, In my Eyes Now Again”
Feeling around for the mouth of the portal, I hooked my arm and was again on the street – out from between two oddly strategic, unstrategically placed buildings in the same strolling motion I had caught myself galavanting in earlier. This is a ghost town, outlined in the Appalachians with one square block of Las Vegas in the middle of it. Accent so thick like they forgot about us, but the house was furnished, and the ghosts have left the plexi glass, so I dragged my attention towards crafting an entry. Inside, once I got in, a furniture store, and the aquarium section of a petstore. Goodbye, nice to meet you! In and out of all my years (dissolve behind one another) I haven’t been able to find the same so rug that my therapist had when I used to visit him in that strip-mall they made Hollywood thereon after. Redefining the cell itself as the nucleus in order to make The Tractor go, now puts the fear in us that their mortality doesn’t match their eminence; so we crank their wheel and push the tires they ride above to the tune that echoes between us and them.
But it is Saturday Night and certain things out here look pretty damn good, so damn good. Like I’m a tower and they made it for the Rapunzel in my mind, behind these eyes. And I’ll keep doing it, shedding skin for the sinking feeling between yellow and orange – the force that I don’t want to associate with that sometimes is the only one willing to tie me to my body but not my body to the Earth. Often finding comfort in my menagerie, I go to take it out when I hear the “What Are You Doing?”
I was like a little girl with my train set out, and model plane half built with sticks still about the rug. Like Parent had just come in to see why I had only finished half of my Vegemite on toast to discover me disappointed, smoking to my stuffed animals and other loved ones about the state of his parenting.
“Green I tell you,” said the Shopkeep. “I could turn the whole planet green, but then It’d only be one color!”
He brushed the bodies off the street, leaving a big red barcode with the broom in his hands, knowing it reads something slightly different from last night, hoping we wouldn’t notice .