You’re reminded of your own tomb. Do you have one, and do you have a spare?
You could always use a spare tomb.
Who will leave flowers on your grave, and who will remember your rebirth? Will it be worth remembering?
After a while is a breath. A coolness. A breeze. You hear a sound that is always there. And you appreciate the brief reprieve.
There might not be space for life.
For cereal boxes. For mess. For things you shouldn’t keep but can’t get rid of.
It’s open. If you have secrets and spirits, they have no shadows to hide in.
There might not be space for wires. For the kinds of toys that come in and out and in.
For the new American things.
And there is the flaw. It’s time. Time and water and water is heaviness.
There is the flaw: the check. The bill.
The thing that does not come out of the mountains, the water.
The theft of native imagery.
The racist flower arrangements.
The inorganic element.
The thing we made and inserted.
And again, sometimes, there is tree.
Sometimes it is dead.
And then it comes back.
Not to talk or be talked about.
Just to breathe.
Sometimes, a flat painting on a curved surface.
Sometimes two geniuses have toxic sex.
Sometimes two geniuses have toxic sex and are admired by the rest of the world.
And their art is displayed in the houses of boring, rational, successful people.
Which is worse?
Your spare tomb is for the wires you cannot bear to get rid of.
It gets the nicer cemetery.
The one made for veterans.
And you are in smog.
Again, the sound that is always that you can never hear. It’s water. Clear and still except for a corner.
And it rushes down.
You can slow it down.
With your phone or your mind.
Your insides hurt a natural hurt and you decide not to take a pill for it.
Corner after corner breaking open like an egg.
This is a world too distinguished from bar fights.
A woman poses for a photo.
She is suggestive.
She is from the past, and the photo is in black and white.
No, we have not changed.
And she now, likely dead.
And there is the difference between a tomb and the sky.
It’s just inside.
It’s just a pain and an uneasiness, and a breeze and the sound of water.
Sometimes, always, never, tree.