There’s a party. You open the door. Every third person in the room hands you a flash-bang, pins in their teeth. They knock the wind out of you, then ask what how why and, by the way, who. The wall. It’s the first thing you could find big enough to stick to. So you lean there like a bent flower, dizzy, hypoxic, trying your best to match the wallpaper. You want to mix. You want to blend. Damn, you just want to breathe. But you’ve been flashed and banged and now you’re bleeding. Your shadow’s all over the walls. You want to paint a frame to become the picture. Look at me. Please don’t look over here. Can’t you see I’m painting? Wildflowers, Hold on to your rope. When the stars stop spinning and the whiteout begins blackening and air backwashes into a lung, you feel your hands again. So you shove them deep into your pockets, like you were told not to do, and hope that your pencil’s still there and it’s sharp. As you come to the toothpicks are everywhere— in the olives, in the umbrellas, in the teeth, in the water chestnuts and meatballs— all over the floor. The floor. Thank goodness for the floor. The roof is on fire and the wall’s papered over, windows painted shut. But the floor, the floor has always been there for you, loose boards and a11
Image by Amani’.