THE VIOLET WINDOW
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Where you Darcy?
are now
I am outside of the home as a child. The yard has trees. The fireflies are silent but the world hums. Clouds fill the sky. It's red, blue, green and someone sings with a Chinese Violin. Am I walking? Yes. Am I talking? No. The door is open and there are people crying inside. It’s warm with teapots and strange smells but there is a raven desk and few chairs. Ghosts walk out back when I enter. Flowers grow from the walls. There is a sea in the bathtub with coral reefs and schools of hammerhead sharks. I stop by the bed where a child is sick. It is not me but it is like me. She is like me. “You must help us.” I hear from the side. This is her picture. I look at it and it’s sad. I say yes and that I will help. My fingers cover her eyes and I shoot into the void of her skull. I swim through the blackness.
Inside there is a window. Looking out the window, she points for me to go. "So go," she says and I see a path leading out to a hedgemaze. It’s purple and blue and I pass through the glass like it’s nothing at all. Wandering through I find chests with toys and gold. There are others there walking some ways. It’s cold but no one cares. I come to an opening in the dark light and see a great city. The lights taste good on my tongue and its like 8,000 teeny tiny shock waves of electric opium laced cotton candy--writhing and rising up; convulsions of power lines and clock towers and cellphone towers and cunnilingus in the early hours. Orgasmic futures of technology and art and acting and celebrity idolatry. Cars smell clean. Music looks sweet. It's the angel of dreams and she never fakes it. Everyone touches her, feels her, wants some of her. Don’t want other things. She’s got hills that move under your hands and go back firm when you’ve both come and gone. She will never love you. It’s a one way street Pete.
WAKE UP