Remember Me

(published in Incident Codex, an anthology from Inpatient Press, May 2014)


To immobilize the crystals in a kaleidoscope I crawled through a lens darkly.

It’s a long one. The glass expands in proportion to the time I’ve got inside: three, two, one and consider this entry the watch hand frozen before some end.

It’s the solstice. I told him to read my writing: I’m expounding on the fractal forms of a labyrinth, baby. It’s just like computer science, baby. The deeper you go, the more you know. This one’s on me.

It’s the red carpet unfurling to the apex of a groovy parallax, baby. Call me by code name—I don’t remember your real one either. We were anaesthetized on the operating table. We were dead.

We were the best of friends. We only wanted one thing. I’m a twin, I understand these things better than you do. Without another me I’ve forgotten what forms to mime while sleeping. You can see it in profile: the double of a silhouette.

At sunrise we called down our dreams just to shoot ‘em back, sparking rubber and live wire. In the beginning was the word. Take it seriously, baby.

But, hey, we can’t undo fate by writing. But we stole away in the night making signals through the glass. Were you there? Was your mouth at God’s ear? Read this and remember me:

“I am noble, all of my dreams are noble dreams.”

(my fingers pause)

If only we could really communicate, baby. Imagine it.

Hypnotized by the strength of my persistence I commit this dispatch to a fertile web, a sea encircled by shifty tributaries. A stream for a ride. I’ll see you soon.