The Word(s)

Following an afternoon of fun,
we re-convene for the evening session.
There is a lag in energy and
motivation until a suggestion is
made. The motion is seconded.
I summon the parties with
my Mexican gavel and American
spoon. With the help of the martyr
Prometheus, we boil over.

-Who’s the biggest bad-ass?
-I’ve a Hamilton.

Moving to my left, first I, then
The Word, fall off the table teetering
on the precipice of reality.

It’s the lighting that’s important
here. Like everything else (unfortunately)
you can’t have too much, or it
bleaches out the un-reality.

With paints in hand, and the door
for a canvas, time stops. The Word
says he’s comfortable. He could stand
there forever, holding his three
instruments of bliss: brush, beer and tube.
With my eyes open, I can’t see.
I’ve become blind, but I’ve created
a new way of communicating…
non-verbally of course. While I
talk, my right hand transcribes my
words into symbols that I’ll
never decipher.

I’m out of my mind, I say.
My relationship with sanity is connected
only tenuously, by a very thin
thread. I tell The Word that I
need to float, to avoid any snagging
or severing.

After a long period of static time,
a large chunk passes by
without ever announcing its presence.

I’m teaching myself to read,
while The Word rests his eyes.
He lies on his back with his
legs up, forming a mirror-imaged,
dislocated ‘J’. Plaid on plaid,
he sails away on a ship of
cotton (not) manufactured in China.
I cannot catch him, so I light
a smoke, and hope that our
journey into the clouds ends
with the sun shining.