Swing Sets

It is a decade now from the time I arrived here. The slithering half-snake half-junkyard wears cars and hides under the paper-shadows in silent vacillation. Each movie screen so clear, yet I have no fingers to adore the keypad. The refined motions of air are iron-circled on waterway eyelids. I stare into them and they into me, but there is nothing noteworthy about it. No flash of light when the metallic-lids draw-down, hollowing crevices where angels would dwell if there were such things, their homes becoming holes of falling stone.
Still I know I moved here becoming closer to sunlight. Sometimes I crouch near a window and watch swing sets at recess in the nibbling schoolyard. They are passing around the clouds of a cat’s false eye. They inspect it with a telescope which, I assume, one of them has procured from the science lab’s closet, a place where abandoned desks research their infrastructure by scrutinizing slides perfect for microscopes. When I see the swing sets finally drop the clouds and return to their normal, eerie sway, carefully rinsing themselves in the reflection of the fake eye and then dry themselves on the colors refracted off its lens, I realize the eye is quite real. As real as each one’s unconscious, the possibility for its externalization, (indicative of what cruelty can’t handle), swaying back into the pockets of their civilized games. It could have been gold.
They circle into a bouquet and an inflated planet is flung toward the earth. Their thin iron-fingers grip the launching sequence codes right from the screen, but for them, in that neon-shadow, something communicates. And suddenly each one disappears. The ball remains falling towards earth, as if pointed towards making a statement. Things begin to lose their minds and deflate from the significance once attributed to the chair and table of their control. A cat with a missing eye circumambulates around the window, and leaps through it shattering glass. I need someplace to hide. I hear an airplane passing over a garbage pale of sky escaped water. I watch static electricity snap the trees into buttons, her blouse, the wings of orioles; (to open it).
I withdraw further into the room, as the cat prowls towards me, trains falling out of its missing eye. Trains smashing into the floor then exploding, their pieces everywhere, the cat walks over the metallic heaps and electric dispersals, as the trains continuously fall from its eye. The swing sets crowd my shattered window, one of them holding the cat’s fake eye, extending it to me. It could have been gold. It’s so alive. It makes me remember my humanity. There are mountain horizons in its surface, jagged magenta, sharp veins of a cockroach. I shudder looking at it, yet knowing the eye could be my salvation. The cat becoming closer. I’m crouched in this corner, nowhere to go. With a shaking hand I extend it outward, as to gesture for the swing set holding the eye to throw it to me. Suddenly, I hear the calm voice of a familiar woman, whispering a mantra to me. I feel love, I feel cautious. It must be the whispers of the room. It is like wind chimes, except without sound; I look down into the cat’s one good eye, and smile.
This time of day is usually my best time of day, the cat gently tilts its head as to make its one good eye more available. I stare. And as I do so, the swing-set with the cat’s fake eye throws it to me. It lands near my right ankle. While still staring in the cat’s good eye, I roll the fake eye with my stump-hand and extend it to the cat. The cat breaks his stare and walks towards me, but this time with more ease, patience, and grace. It approaches me within inches, and stops, as light reflects off the broken glass from the smashed window in its paws. With trains still falling out of its eye socket, smashing into the carpet, and piling all around us, the cat lifts his left paw and extends it towards the eye, but the glass in his paw with blood all around it, strains light through the shards as if to grip my neck and bend me into its crevices of unappreciated molecular precision, perhaps in hopes of gaining my will to worship them.


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