El Egg

City of memory, memory like a city. Partly under renovation, partly suffering urban decay. Remembering and forgetting like diastole and systole of the same organ, contracting and dilating. Gentrification. Excavation. Ex vena cava, deoxygenated. Cava -- thinking a Spanish sparkler, but remembering cool caves with mossy blankets, cavatina, corpora cavernosa. When the liquid passes over, the velcro loses its grip. Why that bobbin tugging at the crook of the stream? Something sticks to it, most things detach. But what is the liquid that passes over and through? What is that stuff, that life, made of? Sleep is a stickler for dreams. Expectation horded from another grasp. And the ink would come to bleed out in black currants. Juice that might reflect better out of darkness than mere lucid circumspection. Rising up from the chalk outlines into the chalked up chalkiness of it all. The pleasure of these uncertain isotopes. The lint inside the navel. Memory's body is a tumbler. Somatic somersaults returning soporific in kind. Leafing through the possibles. As if the future were not a prosthetic extension of the present as it is not what it most appears to be. Colliding with the scopic. A burden of force that defeats the self-digested self's shelf life preserved in its shell. Selfish to keep to itself. Or known, aspire. A sixth sense in suspense. Time to mood the alters. The seemly totters. Art's aerial. Sclerotic dissonance. To have taken from what you came to suppose. Solicit this night of human ankles. "People muth be amuthed." Leery of slurs but swerving. Cicatriz. The jagged edge, a knowledge. March, this time. A mandible that ceases in an image of caput mortuum. Montage -- the sum of who you are and how are you come to word within word like linked bracelets of bright bone. La città. Will it ever prosper? A would-be noun's oceanic boundary. Calypso's flood kit. What rippling means in the care of lines.