We wander down paths of collective nouns, affixing labels to forms and formless alike. Without these specific, burdened words, we are alone in our own skulls. The shapes between us blur until we are uncertain, shaky and shaken. Think through this filter; synaesthesia of the vicarious. Translate, translate, but never know what this means. We lose referents to dominant chaos. We crave the tangible to prove the ethereal, and mistrust skin or smiles or sibilants . A sense of touch divorced from the experience of texture. We become the compartments we learn to apply to experience. When all we ever wanted was to be a lexicon of our own invention.
Perhaps there is no start to this conversation. Roll the dial across every frequency from right to left and back again. The hiss and buzz of amplitude modulation with occasional focus on something intelligible. Four bars from an old song. The answer to an unknown question . An opinion offered to a midnight audience of five. Phonemes scattered on the speaker dancing secret messages into the passenger seat.
If, perhaps, there were more to say tonight, I would find myself curled around the steering wheel, resting on your wrist. And all the other secret places you never thought to lie about.
In the many days of silence, perfect words flit like restless thoughts through axons and dendrites. Like elusive spices in a creamy sauce and silk fluttering against the ankle in an inexplicable draft. Shades of black on black on blue in a moonlit night. Magpie feathers gliding on a winter breeze.
We fight against the gravity of small bodies. And leave the corners blank.
We stood where green turned to blue, watching the spectrum spin in all directions, caught in the spray of a garden hose. We heard the kaleidoscope tinkle mosaic out of the windows of old houses. Old homes. We were yellow and orange and purple and all the glint of silver and gold. And we knew where to put the shadowy black to bring out the fire in red.