My Obsession, Like a Laser

 For the Sunday Muse #156:

Bring me...what did I need?

Bring me the brief flash from the side

of the obelisk.

Catch it like a butterfly

Between your palms, gently, when

all wisdom fades...

I see the scales, there,

Staining your grip, like ink, like

desire--mine, for this.

It stains my head, breaks

My connection to the divine glass

and all the gods.

I will raze this city

With their corneas.

He tells me these are contact lenses carved from divine eyeballs--and I've known he wanted to destroy this entire shelf. Every model and figure, every book and frame. He keeps telling me that we can't see these ideas, so baldly reified, as if our dreams were toys and our hearts acrylic boxes. He urges me to destroy them, to abjure them to ash and black plastic coffins. Your mind is the trash bin, he warns. Full of old futures long grown impossible. Let me...just let me in your room and I'll help you remember more cleanly. 

It's been one of those weeks--just grey and chilly and not all that conducive to...stuff. It's a week in which having something to say seems impossible and pointless and only for the well-coifed and chatty-- probably the standard ennui for this stage in drafting. It's also perfectly normal to want to stomp like Godzilla around Texas, wearing a mask that's only partially flame-retardant. It's been a weird week. 

-- Chrissa