It was just that he would wonder why | why he could have a vision of laying on his back with her in the yellow-green grass, hands behind their anything but lazy heads and eyes lazy glazed upward gazing at a day sky blue-gray overcast and seeing the scene like he was the one taking the picture and still somehow in it | like foreshortening or shadowing or trompe l’oeil or some other such perspectivism he’d only mis-define because, you know, words again | and what does it really matter, he’d imagine she’d imagine she’d ask if he could only get inside her imagination and see | there’s beauty in imprecision, she’d say | and he’d love her more for understanding | truly understanding what others only wished to |

and he’d wonder why he could have that vision when they never did, or hadn’t yet, maybe wouldn’t, probably would, could | knowing, though, that’s an ordinary easy enough kind of simple everyday unprofound daydream sight that anyone might have and might ramblewonder on about just mostly kind of precisely sort of like this | but he always wanted to be different | to find difference and take the shot he’s in | then differ be different differing from that, steadfastly (though sometimes fearfully) resolute | never just anyone but always that one in the picture, several steps into someone from somewhere and headed | sometimes sick of his same old static photo freeze and wishing the tracks leading there were apparent, more | faint footprints in the dry grass tracking back | so that he might know how he’d arrived | or if he had | or at least the general direction from which he’d wandered | sometimes—maybe most—just looking, wondering without exception excepting himself why ordinary easy enough and custom-regular—that was then and here’s now, see, it’s different—would never be that at all and never fool him | knowing that with unfortunate certainty | knowing it would never stick like to your ribcage some homecooked satiation down home and homespun but feeling like yarns as if he was doing something wrong in wishing and trying to say it back and wishing somewhere down that line he hadn’t felt obliged to relinquish what meant |

and what he’d really and truly and down under deeply wonder was why the presumptuous ones with all their desirous ignominy and doting, amatory vituperation | nearly idolatrous | would hear that kind of easy deviation dayvision dream and see him as a kind himself, a type, yes | the dr…er | a type-kind of cast target as if down a spiraled gun barrel and having only to gently squeeze the trigger to stop him in his meandering tracks, dead and captured for lepidopterologist pegging with motionless wings unfolded and pinned for safe and ordinary easy scrutiny | like yeah we’ve got you, strange flutterby | or just left where he lay, on his back in the yellow-green grass | alone | alone wounded all because all he had was a vision and a mouth that on occasion dared to share it | insistent, persistent, resistant | “crawling around looking for the aperture of complete and final emptiness” | “vibrating in isolation among you” | and he would wonder, naïve, typical type, why it mattered to them at all—that was the real question underlying, under lying—unless all they wanted was to avoid a little self-looking discomfort and look at the pretty strange thing in the glass case or in the grass and marvel “other” or even presume narcissus reflection | petulantly demanding it fly a little more on their terms, boxed in, mostly, tied down to expectation and egomaniacal demand wound and wrapped around |as if by any imaginative stretch a cocoon could ever imply understanding |

and why it always seemed to always have to always be so goddamn boringly fucking complicated, so closed looped, so black and/or white, so twisted and knotted and numblingly repetitive and illusory like an old barber’s pole in grayscale | moving and going nowhere | when all he wanted, to presume by that sight unseen but felt, was a breeze and a little saturation and some thinking, even on an overcast muted kind of color drab kind of day when the grass was dry and turning and the breeze wasn’t not warm but wasn’t chilly yet either and there was room and a hope that she might be there to share it |

to really truly share it

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.