an incredibly small pizza shaped piece of styrofoam lodged in the sand. two kids by the shore dig holes then fill them with liquid from buckets. a small group of dudes headbutt a ball around. laugh and yell shit in another language. the tone of trash talk is universal. their ball a bounce off each of their heads. it must’ve missed eventually. splashing someone who was floating past. how else could their game have ended?
The feelings rise and fall they change in you blaming someone else or one’s self or else not so that the action taken changes each day each second in fact it changes within the innerness of the mental apparatus we’ve created daily always putting in and taking away fragments mixing together moving freezing deleting into shapes escaping from the general overflow not knowing what’s going on what is what or who is who.
The doves of my Virgil don’t float and then tarry, carry over one another, tarry and carry further only to be floated away on an invisible stream. My Achilles is not the lion whose mane is crowned crimson in the blood of Hector, nor is he the sinister spider weaving his fate as he weaves ‘round his final prey. The temptress nymphs tempt far less when my Odysseus is tied to the bow of his ship- their rhythm- the alien allure of their far away magic is a shade of a shade and a drug.
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At six years old Malachi dreamed he was in love with a green girl. She was terminally ill, and it was contagious. He saw her crouching against a backdrop of black, hiding her face. He approached and embraced her and knew that he had penetrated into love’s untouchable essence.
Cut scene. Now he sat at a long dinner table. The green girl across from him radiated her charming disease.