By: Kyle Singh
What stood beyond the negatives were the damped reflections of my astigmatism.
They spread upon the kitchen table between my mouth and a lighted candle.
I spoke my piece and described my memories with automated reflexes.
Curdled cottage cheese laid rotting in the refrigerator.
Distressed by angular phonetics of notes left attached to magnets.
Adorned by the cooing of spiders; and gnawing of woodchucks at the wall.
One by one old friends with music grinned, as if they sensed a shifting of the guard.
Like matryoshka dolls seizing at the chance to unpack themselves.
And their dancing slowly went analog; and their minds retracted themselves from knowing.
To be transcendent was to be human.
And reposed was I, in this organization.
Of place and time and breadth and depth and yelling and shouting and wishing and wanting and craving and lusting and breathing and wandering and trying and showering and waking and
Reminding myself there was observing to be done.
It took the chanting of parables for the caravan to arrive.
And cold hissing exited itself from my door.
To an infinite receptacle charged with the conservation of experience.