“Speak of the Highs.”

I can’t speak without parting a sky, walking a fringe, even

structuring an affected area of brains. There’s something in

there: an echo in a forest of hemispheres; a valve fraught with

giggles; even ridges of religiosity.

I saw a phantom: my very eyes. They hosted funerals, where

souls

departed,

glossy hearted,

seeping into regions.    

I can’t imagine an idea free of salutations, where subjects enter

into converse with thoughts that forge personhood. Their an

element akin to spirits. We outwit invisible entities,

roaming city to city.    

I met her near Hermosa Beach: burgundy eyed; tall; slender;

oval faced, staring me brow to brow. We glanced

affectionately: “How

are you?”

I’m newly born.

We sat and partook of imagination, feeding on energy, lost in

illusion. Our auras reeked of, Give me life.

I touched chiseled fingers, brushed raven hair, where heartbeats

rumbled

lightning.

“My home is near. It’s filled with portraits. I’d like to share.”

I

froze, thrust into a future, which broke a mirror, to

volume, yes.

 

I need not paint a maze, where morning was abandoned to

hangovers, tomato juice, and hushed goodbyes.

Yearly,

a moon captures grace: a honeyed tone; a fractured intention;

a need to touch.

I say more to experience: ghosts as painful; highs as rushes;

strange encounters; and friends taking snapshots.