Vertig

Henry in the gears

Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash.

In the machine with gears. Black oil on my head like a hat. Flakes of gold littered on the redacted lines. I don’t see the lines they don’t want me to see. Redacted reality. On my head like an angel’s horn. Making music. I’m in with the gears and cogs grinding my fingers, chest and nose. Bones if I let it. Chasing after me like a cell splintered off mitosis.

I’m lost again. Henry in the vertig. Asking the question. Is this another experiment of something larger than self? Is the machine trustworthy? When I don’t know who to trust I gnaw my leg to get away. To make me trust, you must make me feel safe.

I am Henry in the vertig where I can be my original self. I come here for answers to the larger tale. I come here to play with words inside the machine that erected illusion. I call it army. I call it marketplace. I call it internet, temple, church, institution. Limestone cornerstones broken to rubble to stone parishioners for being exactly what God created.

god deserves god. deflated like a flat tire on spike strips. where’s henry? back to jail. seated next to god in the backseat of a cruiser. god’s body makes a whump sound when it’s run over.

The god machine needs spots of oil and a way to cool itself. It projects solutions but shows no way out. Henry runs upstairs to the peak with a mind to cast…