So let's talk about the
birth of an obsession.
*Sigh*
Sure,
she's scared.
But let's just examine the obsession for now.
And the agent that solidified it.
An arrangement of concrete and steel
a manifestation that spins, yet doesn't move.
A devine pattern.
A world of enchantment.
And not the healthy cry of a newborn,
but an ailing squeal.
Not a vigorous young screech,
but a measly wail.
So let's talk
about the birth of an obsession.
It's not just simple obsession, though.
I'd call it a new form of life, a different way through the door.
It's a new path.
It's for.
So imagine this.
A careless diver
boating at the ports.
Come over here.
I want you to listen to something that's spiraling ramp
right there in front of you.
It's caused a lot of sorrow, and it's caused a lot of heartache too
Its foundations
run for blocks in every direction.
It rotates
endlessly off into space, by implication.
It's a physical construct, becoming a mental object
of such staggering complexity that all she can do in its presence
fall to the couch and weep.
A president edifice
occupying such a large portion of her mind that there's no room left
for processing speech, or food or time or sleep,
or visual information.
A narcotic coil of lime.
I'm talking about obsessive thoughts.
I'm talking about obsessive thoughts regarding an obese rendering.
If I may be allowed to mix the fat and the tallow of a single experience.
Objectively, it's massive, but trivial.
Subjectively, it is staggering.
Its possibilities are endless, but tightly constrained.
It could be anything.
But it isn't just anything.
If that thing.
Let’s witnessed
the aftermath of a late night parking ramp, parking.
Here's some yelling,
but still fit in the car fiddle with dial
to get out.
Look down the ramp, toward the guard booth
and the man looks back.
Kind of familiar, isn't it?
Kind of vile.
Kind of vulge.
Kind of self indulged.
Here's where everything begins to accelerate downward.
She thinks she might know him and she thinks he's cute.
But his head takes a very, very inappropriately long time to swing up
from looking down at the ground up to looking down the ramp at her.
Let me say that again, because your orientation is critical here.
If you want to follow any of this, if you're going to follow the path
from the fist.
His head takes
a very, very inappropriately long time swing up
from looking down at the ramp up to looking down the ramp pattern,
get out and walk up the ramp toward the guard booth as he walks away
It's the camp of the flirtation.
It's slant towards elevation.
It's the blood of the altercation.
*Sighs*
Enough of that
She got gaga over him.
Who does something
bypass articulation and take over your mind from the inside?
Let's walk over to the guard booth and watch it happen.
What happens when you can't stop thinking about something?
Let's keep walking toward the guard booth.
See it happen.
Imagine the same thing over and over again.
Imagine the blood stain.
The rust stain. That lured rust stain
We're almost to the guard booth
now, we’ll watch it happen.
I believe we're going to watch it happen because someone should stop it.
I wish I could stop it, and I could
stop it, but at this point, I wont.
There. There, there.
There. There.
There.
The ramp guard
knocked motionless, a broken man walked to the elevator.
I don't know if he saw her
I don't know if she noticed.
I don't know what they argued about.
I don't know why he hit him.
I don't know if he's breathing.
I don't know why she likes him.
I don't know all the answers,
but let me try to explain by saying
there was in front of her that weird rust stain.
More like a brain than a stain.
More like the swishing brain of her soul than either brain or stain.
She urged
herself on and on the pillow that is too strong.
Visual screens now focused in on her,
Squeezed eyes tightly shut, flooded like the car trunks banging
rapidly open and shut all around her. But there it was in front of her.
That weird rust stain and that terrible, indelible image
staggering under its own oafish weight.
A seven level parking ramp, centrally
designed around a bank of glass guard booth
Nearby the booth, dangerous and anarchic action
spread federally out and angled downward across
and on forward, under the cement floor.
It quickly became clear that night that booth guard wasn't ever coming back soon.
She said something to herself, but she opened the car door.
All directions merged downward along this ramp floor.
They abounded and they, and and, and they, and, and they
they they abounded
uneasily around and around the deafening ramp floor.
She stepped red outside her car.
Even earlier from her own bad
antics she was shaking.
She thought of the familiar blue
happy hours nearby. Of the inner heart sinks and tangled
surrounding her in and out around the office ramp bar.
She'd always hated this place.
That guy, that show, this word
all auditory excitement vanished during the talk show portion of a show.
Left over on the booth guard’s tipped black and white.
Now she just wanted to hurry and get along home
through the gauge distance between her and the blood spot,
several dozen yards away that she just about hadn't seen yet.
She pulled and rolled to the spot.
All eyes glued shut,
then banging up open as she walked down toward the guard booth,
clinchedly vocalizing a self-defense mantra.
Ten years
from the door, she spotted a white entrance about ten spaces
away from the back front entrance of level seven.
Now dangled attractively from up pursuing whisper
She felt frozen
to the spot and observed she wanted to run,
but her movements were codified with fear before it was again for the first time.
That weird rust stain.
Even now, even as we take the first step,
there's something inherent in the physical nature of the ramp
and imaginary tumor.
Making the motion and action and sound and structure
coalesced in her mind as a consolidated thing.
A certain quirk on the cochlea.
In other words,
she isn’t obsessed with the horrible, horrible event that evening,
she isn’t obsessed with actions and mistakes.
She isn’t obsessed with a fist crush or a head pounding down.
She's obsessed with certain physical
and psychic features of a spiraling cement.
Underneath all that cement,
there's a network of steel mesh, you’ve seen them build those things haven’t you?
I have, believe me, you're not missing anything.
But under the steel mesh, there's more cement.
Under all the cement.
Thick foundation anchors.
The whole thing and keep it from drilling into the ground as the cars
Accelerate to the top, pushing the ramp backward with earth
beneath them.
Underneath
all of that is a dense and impenetrable block of poison
that's too dangerous to think about.
But too violent, to be blind to.
Also down there somewhere is a ham sandwich
that one of the workers dropped during construction.
I don't know that for sure.
I'm just saying that it's probably true.
I can't even imagine what that looks look like by now.
She stumbles downward through earth and angles
as the particulars of the building shattered
all around her were loose and rusted building parts
torn at by the hands of the civilized population.
All she wanted was to get inside the elevator where no lights were off
and no seventh level curled on and on
a place where she was out of her car and away from those loose and rusted
building parts to which her right now meaningfully attached.
Some roofing
came locally and tipped over the guards black and white.
Long distance television station.
What about those who around you still suffer
What if he sees you? What’s forming now?
What about the stain?
Shield yourself.
On and on.
But her impalement and his visual squeeze was too
overly strong.
She squeezed shut and everything flooded
The swishing of trunks, trunk banging footsteps
and that terrible, indelible image staggering, soon up against her eyes.
All eyes
flew open as she tried to control her fear.
She spotted a white entrance.
White line, white exit.
White obese booth guard lying there in front of her.
She looked back and saw what was in front of her.
The back.
Front entrance to level six.
Dangled over
and frozen to that spot.
She thought herself down ramp,
trying to wash herself backwards
into that same time frame.
She waxed over
everything surrounding her, thinking,
locking it all into a temporary
melt and grab.
She stumbled forward back down the ramp,
but the sharp building part caught her and showed her the stain.
There it was in front of her that weird level seven rust mark.
Stained more like a brain than a stain and all torn at.
For you it seemed like.
Like it had been torn at for years.
All she wanted now was to get inside level six,
where there was no sharp lighting and no unusual
foot traffic.
Apathy after nine.
She sure got that message.
After nine, the office ramp party nearly ran on in the lounge and level one
After nine,
A makeshift dummy guard booth set up with a nearby sign.
Visit level two to visit level one.
Extreme bans on all ramp levels
now except the fourth and third after nine.
Most ramp booth guards skip drink on level one, swapping
tortious stories of lost vehicle.
She wanted to pull the alarm right away, but was scared
and even not part thinking straight yet
yet yet, some, yet yet, some yet,
Yet somehow her eyes picked out a person coming towards her.
With all due respect to him as a stranger,
her first sight of him staying her eyes open shut,
and in her haste to be consistent with that respect,
she pretended to barely notice any part of him.
All she could do was think of that stain.
Now she had to bend down and focus before the guy disappeared and hid,
and later got right up in front of her.
Don't worry about it.
The young booth guard said in a cart that rolled past her hitting that guy earlier.
Beefed up on other symptoms.
Jabbing at the bar for steady alcohol treatment
Why leave her behind with him?
And what else?
And when
she wondered if he was teasing or just readying
to suddenly appear around the ramp curve.
What to do?
Only to stun.
Now at the bar, shaken, not afraid she might burst deeply at the
conversation with the guy.
She might just as easily burst back.
Only one thing was certain.
The trend was set for all things.
Blond hair was back and tan
and in this bar, back in a clever
and criminal quantity.
Behind him, she casually brushed up
subtly, gesturing to increase his attention span.
His hand turned around and she froze.
Her mouth dropped open in the middle of her own spilled sentence
Confused now, she gesturally hinted at him damaging his own kind.
Just back up the ramp.
Fine tuning the resonance.
She said no.
She didn't want to meet up with him later.
Those three smashed states
she had tried so hard to describe and avoid running
over and over again, now became repeatedly present.
He thought she'd been here ages ago.
That's what he told her, and smiled as an introduction.
You're an affectionate at on the arm turn.
You ride with terror.
She had to, but she couldn't.
Here is the story of the bully and the diving board.
You're an affectionate cat
and you ride with trouble.
She had to.
She had to. She couldn't.
She had to hear this story, but she couldn't.
Her heart beating so loftily.
Both could hear it.
In a continually lowering voice.
Let me tell you about the bully and the diving board.
Between her
believing ears was now a stain of terrifying information.
This time, more like a stain than a brain.
More like the chewed brain of a saint.
An organ of thought so recognized universally
to at least as more chewing importable
to end it right here.
Just smelled scalp empty the mesh.
Apathy got her up
and stuck inside that ramp to begin with.
After five.
Got her drunk after seven.
It got her listening after eight.
She set her jacket down at a pretty table
and looked around the leather lounge area.
He was cute and nearby as ever.
Smell the scalp and you'll know what a mess
she was in.
Right away she wanted to call security, but she feared finding
the policeman's mountainous morals inclining its support.
In her haste
to get visibly consistent and casual with the hometown fact.
She barely noticed her gradual move downward to level six.
All she could think of was nature, nature and the weird police,
and how she had to get them back up to level seven right away
before that oblivious stain disappeared
and integrated itself into another thought block.
There it was in front of her that weird rust
stain centralized and wrecked.
Now more like a brain than a stain.
More like the swishing brain
of her soul than either brain or stain.
She wondered, was he disappearing,
ditching her? Some nerve. What?
What to do?
What to do stunned him in the deeper conversation.
She rushed behind him, gesturing at his mouth,
her’s dropped open in the middle of a sentence.
Confused, she hinted embarrassedly
at some damaging spill of automotive fluid
flowing down from the car.
Maybe he could help.
Maybe he could check under the hood.
Turning right red, she met his eyes.
I haven't heard that since high school.
He seemed to beat red
as if too fed up to do any steady jawing barroom treatment.
She'd tried so hard to describe to her friends over and over again.
He thought she'd been here earlier.
She couldn't look down at the blond man then.
her heart was beating so loftily he might not recognize it.
Here at the bar.
She wanted to be recognized.
There at the car. She didn't.
Some call that a plot twist
I'd call it a world of enchantment
a world
of enchantment.
Could she just concentrate on one thing?
His eye
His crime
Penetrating corneas.
Quickly.
erased his nice to meet
yous and encouraged her to get right on and take the life in your hand.
And look on him intently in the, He actually split it.
Take a chance on love.
Hey, it's the new you running off
And every subsequent event slip away together.
She should've saved the stage.
Whisper for another event
With her ahead of me now.
Dead white.
She didn't even know what it meaned yet
Or whos boundaries.
Damn.
More to the point.
She knows that guy. Someone.
He'd be spreading ahead.
More. More like.
More like the like. Like.
More like.
More like a brain than a stain himself.
He’s constricted in her eyes
and incredulous
to her concrete thoughts.
Large, slow
and on the offensive.
They’re like the parents of a good old friend.
Dan can be the same guy you saw one night and all different the next.
Joking you've got a double your sanity and your bank account.
The next thing you know, things pile up in the backyard old cars and stuff.
Refrigerators.
In general,
can’t all believe in the nice guy approach.
Even a broken toilet in the backyard.
It's surprisingly common.
She'll never forget
that face as long as it and she live and that includes
Glassing over it in the large company picnic photos earlier that night.
Now moving to excessively fast down
Ramping forward past the bar, fleeing south by northwest from it,
chasing and rotating up right behind him.
An action her grandfather once described to her
in an intensely slurred delivery.
A 100 year old action,
and as present and heavy as it ever was.
Someone please, call the police
mention the stain.
What about the brain? No.
As far as we know it’s a stain.
Not a brain.
It’s penetrating neurons.
Kept her interested.
Afraid.
Descending.
Take your life in your hands.
The new me.
Do you even know what he is?
It's probably some sort of anatomical with.
That's what they call them nowadays.
Or some sort of dead white boundary.
If you believe in that nice guy theory.
Believe me, she'll never forget that awful photograph.
Not from the current incarnate view she has of it.
A fast moving view of a still photograph
burned through emotion, not exposure.
Developed through sound and structure,
but not light.
Can they really do that?
It's surprising what they can do with a little cement
and wire these days.
She wasn't making up the story, but she could only describe
the abnormality of her situation and rotating three.
Moon
Carnival rides,
pawn shop, mall.
Moon, Carnival rides.
Pawn shop.
Mall.
The thing to do is act normal.
Don't let them see the spill.
Don't mention the stain.
More evening
Customers up and took seats near a small field area
by the level five guard,
his eyes stilled upon their drinks.
No. Sure, there's no fighting.
Wherever you work and whatever you do, it's part of the job.
Just act naturally slip out and call the police
For God's sake, don't go out for drinks after work.
That's what the downside turns up.
Like flipping a pancake
or turning over at the harp.
That's where the downside turns up.
There was in front of her
that rust stain dripping and wrecked.
Now more like a train than a stain.
More like the amber train for thought than any other train
or stain.
Down from the bar on level five.
She urged the most essential thing
to get out the door again and ever again,
to fend for his own terrible place, then a next sentence
rammed back down.
Eyes spilled on her with a staggered stance tickets
for drastic promotions from.
Remember
Stay absolutely calm.
He knows you
He knows
you are desperate.
But desperation was
the craziest thing she ever had an excess of.
How was she supposed to keep from panicking for any minute
to march the oh so so familiar cross ballroom movement.
What was she supposed to do then?
Just roll downhill?
As reflected in less than a minute of composure,
spilling half the soda she had just poured on herself.
She raised an eyebrow and feigned for a napkin to wait
for this originating point,
and continued conversing with the same smooth disgusting, sophisticated
little yuck yuck
Give them a talking normal to, she told herself.
Whatever you do, you can't recognize them.
In fact, her emotional bond had
by this point been absorbed into the garage.
Critters.
So much for the birth of an obsession.
Up to her neck, with its current view of level five,
with all his reactions directed downward and outward toward her.
She lied to him on the topic of let's not OD on each other tonight,
okay?
Describe and spill the detail.
I'm sure he didn't recognize me.
If he did, he'd be giving out on and upon her
opening up that small spill.
Wherever you are and whoever you do it to act natural.
Then.
Then slip out and call the police.
Mention his stain.
Run back down and keep her eyes still on him.
He intrigued her with the same slight.
*Mouth click*
Sound that had dramatically pursued and order
since she rounded level four.
Whatever you do, you can't recognize him.
A drink big enough to relax.
She set down a dripping glass and got a little shorter than she remembered,
a 6’ 3” wad of hair touched his top.
Handsome other found him to be
He has a strong square nine arching
eyes all made up and well, no one is happy.
Rotating atmosphere,
physically fit and well trained
She reached the guard booth on level seven
It all fits together.
What can be prepared
for this circumstance, more stained
Well trained
The vestiges of her carefully controlled light
danced wildly about the room a booth guard
Linger carefully at a nearby table, running and tilted forward.
Based do you livecaround here and other prying questions of his
her variability, rocking back and forth slightly on his heel from one to another.
Her barbed little spell had spurred him on
What office were you in?
Do you have a brother?
Maybe to help.
What about the brain?
What about the car trunk being rapidly open?
Shut on.
That quick meeting at level five
started to seem a distant and less dangerous possibility.
Until his next terrifying.
Let go question.
She got a little sharper than she remembered.
Possible.
All the drinking near the guard booth, now found him unpleasant.
He looked lit from the inside in a bad way,
yet all there still found the face handsome.
You're remember?
In reference somewhere
and decisively, or with the ramp lights dimmed at his fingers.
He stared at her.
Could this be it?
Encoded himself actually to her
as they continued drinking down ramp.
Great and independent idea
suddenly showered them.
She thought he had a horrible smile.
As in too much teeth
She thought she needed
to get out of the ramp bar and go someplace with a little tilt.
She snapped, trying to look cool
She said they may have met each other somewhere else.
She called urgently,
facing forward down the ramp after him immediately.
A year ago, at the company
annual dreadful attempt to drain her independent,
she was alone, violently trembling in her throat.
With that continued rushing.
He was maybe there, or maybe in the front
back doorway to level three or something.
Had just occurred to her,
there is trouble here.
They are attacking at this party, but it's not funny.
It's scaring me like an angel of light.
I'll try to keep him here
until the third wave of the.
Okay.
Down to level four.
So there it was in front of her.
That weird stain dripping and mold now.
More looking drain than a stain.
More like the tropical drain of her sweat
than either drain or stain.
She’ll recognize
his car he's charging at the bar on fourth level with the level
five and a few unsuspecting booth guards
from level six.
What about the level seven booth guard?
Or what about the weird rust stain
and that terrible, indelible image
to bright to look at too loud to listen to,
to dangerous to think about.
Relax.
And coming over to join her at the distraught bar
place where she was trying desperately to keep up with the locals,
chatting herself into some kind of ironic,
haphazard interpersonal connection.
She'd managed frantically to stay subtle.
Harder
and harder it remained to remain, to make small talk act much longer
yet affordable, smile and attuned to little voice.
Start another word.
She may have a realization coming about what a stupid thing she's done
being friendly to this guy promised her *mocking gibberish*
She backed into a nearby violence office room
just off the ramp.
In the doorway of the office.
Something had just occurred to her.
She could barely speak
for the time.
She felt herself shaken by...
Didn't she drive west on just a minute ago?
She’d be here? circling around here, flying after lane one.
She should say no.
No, but he's been here.
Makes this a one on one.
A booth gaurd from level three, he told her.
It's been shocking here.
Round the clock this week.
It was that good.
They slipped comical drink
via plastic incubation
between him and his cocktail.
The straw and this drink appeared to have precipitated
all that could be precipitated that evening.
It was that good?
No. No
good, no
good.
Good.
It's the fact that.
It was that good.
There it was in front of her.
That weird rust stain mold.
humid now more liquid grain than a stain.
More with the grain on the grain of her voice
than either grain or stain.
The level three bartender began to hyperventilate
through a series of and large stories about human attention,
emerging art, and expressed his bank
with noise tube.
She felt that the possible
future of hidden violence getting his story.
Her throat tightened.
She couldn't believe this guy was there, right in front of her,
laughing with the bartender on level three.
After tipping over the bar tender on level seven.
She was afraid of his deep breath,
and now, from inside that deep breath
cocktail arena,
she smelled his expressionless smile
he really loved life stories.
Apparently, from a number he told
But hey,
he wanted to hear more meowing from her.
They’ve cornered each other now
he thought she should just come over and say hello and run after a minute.
Voted pursuit down to level two.
Hello. Nice to meet you.
Would you like to come with them?
Think hard about the guard booth.
Just think of the stain and go home.
He over the shouldered his coat.
Come on.
She felt that violent,
sweating off in her own deep breath.
The physical system is rigged in reverse now.
Come over and say hello.
But don't mention the stain.
Overdosing
on her time with him, she had no idea what to say.
Back to any of his ideas.
Turning on heels,
she aligned herself toward the door.
She gasped, starting away from him.
She couldn't bear the blow out of that terrible mouth cork
and yet still, without a comment to lose.
There it was in front of her
that was rust stained, humid and sorrowful.
Now more like rain than a stain.
More like a great rain of tears than either
Rain or stain.
Went down on level two.
She decided to drive down there,
enticing and the best part of the party.
She hoped level two would be filled with more people around.
A pretty thought.
If not, she circled back down
up to level seven,
shining at the end of the aisle.
Someone would strap.
A clean, but odd man.
Semi handsome
for anything in character.
Blanched and anxious,
she unbuckled her seat belt and took the man in hand.
He stopped as if he were trying to block her from spreading too
thinly around the driveway,
through the dim lit garage.
She barely could make out her horn.
He was looking for her, waiting for the booth guard up there,
rapidly rotating around a central point of injury.
The rust stained underside of the nearby car quickly became too dangerous
to think about the events of the evening, quickly becoming too complex to sort.
He's cute.
He's too dangerous to think about tonight.
He’s too violent to be brought into
Too bright to look at.
He's too loud to listen to.
He's too dangerous to think about it.
He’s too gruesome to fall for.
Vicious, he’s too bright to look at.
Too loud to listen to, too dangerous to think about.
You know what I mean?
He’s too dangerous
to think about too arhythmic dance to
You know what I mean?
He’s vicious and average.
He's cute and realistic.
You know what I mean?
There's the deafening automotive roar.
Flooded her ears
The thing to do.
Maybe be calm
There are other possibilities, though.
Shout for safety is one
But what if he's probably just panicking for a second?
Waving money.
But at first, terror told her otherwise.
What an idiot she's been to not implicate the guy first.
Related the face, the beat red face
the instant blond giveaway
when she had the chance down at the bar.
She put her horn
with all her might, as he opened to that
menacing look on its face.
She struck out his hand in a harsh voice
he continued toward her,
his green eyes filling with important
warm,
angry
automotive fluid.
Pretty stupid, isn't it?
Pretty sad.
Well, very much on the draw these days.
Is that what she was?
Is that what she was? pushing on the draw.
Well, yeah.
So you've never been here in your life.
She was having difficulty breathing.
The thought in and out of her ears was growing louder and louder.
More like an approaching train than a thought or brain.
She tried hard to get out of her car so hard she thought she might faint.
Now she knew what that meant.
An aura of her type dispatched to him.
She acted like he was the scum of the earth.
Maybe not even that good.
At the very start he said
Hello. Then she started reacting briefly. Only.
She touched his hair and betrayed him.
Spoke in a nice ugly voice, crouching down now.
He will merge into a piece of the garage floor,
twisting and
symmetrical with wire and terror.
he inched closer to her with both hands.
All that protected her was a little alcohol
and an unbelievably fragile sense of doubt.
At this point, though, mainly the alcohol,
she had no idea what to say back then,
turning on his heels, he aligned himself in front of the back.
Front door to level six, or three or something.
She gasped, starting after turning south.
She couldn't bear the blow out of that garage again by the level two payphone.
At that local rate, there wasn't a single minute
for cent to lose.
There it was in front of her
that weird rust stain, sorrowful and great.
Now, more like pain than a stain.
More like physical pain of memory.
That either pain or stain.
Right.
On the first level, there were more people.
People shining at the end, people anxious.
She unbuckled her seatbelt
and took developing processes in hand.
Just then,
a red rust stain marked the side of the car,
the kind of red that doctors say can be too dangerous to think about,
but a redness that's too violent
to be blind to.
Let’s witness the embarkation and continued complication
of the mind of a woman who sees the immediate aftermath of a parking ramp,
that’s being attacked in a light that, in hindsight,
too bright to look at.
She struck a harsh voice.
She had to get out of this unhealthy mixture somehow.
She exhaled desperately at her surroundings.
That night, his eyes might fix upon hers
Understand?
No I don't.
I only remember a stain
Away for a second.
Well, now you know
you love the girl one.
But it had to evaporate.
It just had to.
She tissued into the horn.
And that loud report issued endlessly soaking around
and into the cavernous garage floor
Mild, knife cracking glass, she gunned her
auto focus off to the side.
She wasn't even sure what move to make.
She just knew it had to happen fast.
Her center of...
is hit the gas pipe, choking out for lost sense of stain.
You know what that means?
Again, I don't.
I only remember a stain. A weird rust stain.
At night he's awake and his eyes fixed upon hers.
like suction cups.
Understand?
Understand that she was implicated by that cold voice.
You know I love the girl one.
But she screamed off to the side.
So, just this one time.
Okay.
I hovered ear to ear with that maniacal look inside.
Get over it
frequently and roughly, her knees were trembling, her feet
Consisted only of turning her toes too frightened not to obey.
The next thing she knew, he was an arm on her back,
and thoughtfully pinned it to just this side of consciousness.
Maybe a sharp pain, maybe a smile.
Maybe a booth guard slumped forward.
She felt herself curve balling into mortal danger
down the ramp and twisted her face right down under.
And now her mouth organ dropped and temporarily words.
But no sound came out with fear.
She inched her mouth forward and shaped.
I see a tire on the garage floor and it's melting.
What about the rust stain?
It's not a stain.
It's more like a brain than a stain.
Can't you please through the coincidence.
Entrance and exit.
I don't see an exit.
I see the mouth of a wall.
In the midst of the creation of an obsession.
But at the same time, let's have a little sympathy for the woman.
Sure, she's scared, but let's focus on the weird,
weird rust stain.
An image projecting
its foreign ideas onto you like a movie screen.
A red glob,
an image that vores into you.
An image more like a brain than a stain.
Let's look at an agent of thought.
Turning a parking map to a mental object of such staggering complexity
that all you can do in it’s presence
Is be still and pray it doesn't make a move toward you.
An image
leaving no room for processing sound or smell
or expelling toxins.
Starting over with
something in that rust stain looked like a brain.
It was shaped just like a brain.
It talked like a brain.
Just thought like a brain.
And you know what they say.
If it talks like a brain and thinks like a brain,
it's more like a brain than a stain.
What creates
an object of such staggering complexity?
I think it happened.
When you combine
a crush
and an attack.
Can't someone turn that darn TV off?
She tightened her grip on plan.
She dropped into a crouched position.
From this position,
She stealthily seized him in contrary motion.
Inching forward, big bit by baby little bit, coming up from behind
as he spun around the booth
guard got the head treatment.
But with the head treatment, I mean eventually.
But that's not the same.
No, no it isn't.
No, it's not the same thing at all.
How then? He reeled
From the impact.
Fell down on his knees and fleshy head, cutting a jagged wound with his.
It's slick of an ear slumped over that cement segment
a huge red bump rose just off the top of his head,
he moaned at the slump.
She originated, in her eyes, a registered terror
flashing at the horrible emphasis she had just backed herself
into. Where is Dan going?
This was the spot he was bleeding and a thick scent
adoration through her veins.
Finally at the bar she gassed Dan with a steaming get out of here!
Vocal tone, get away from him!
Just just just don't just
just just just don't fall.
Just don’t roll down hill.
One armed supported her.
She tried to hurry.
She heard his chilling voice, stepped icily
into her consciousness.
And flirted around her before in tight pirouettes
drop these events into the cement forever together.
When she hadn't obliged, he crushed into
his icy high wire act?
From her position in the driver's seat.
She sees the side of his head.
She shook gently.
She had to get discharged from the garage,
but distantly, her terrific party raging on level three.
She pressed her hand to her forehead.
What should I do?
Stay at the scene.
Back into the party.
Dramatic events
pinch the way across the terror mirrored in her face,
including her lost of chewing sight she had never seen.
She felt her knees buckle as she focused on the face.
But the most frightening thing
was the deadly generalized calm on his face.
She gripped it so tight the sequence ran past
her at an angle approximating the slope of the pavement.
She hit.
She flashed.
She revamped.
She hit.
She flashed.
She revamped.
A beautiful tent falls during
Roaming.
But then it got dark.
And the gate dropped shut.
Stares about ten yards from her.
She might make it to the door.
She might make it to the dance floor.
If she could cry and move very fast.
The air between the two of them would decompress like a song,
she whispered.
She urged to confuse them.
She gassed out the door to street level.
There it was, in front of her,
at street level, with that weird rust stain
Great and centralized.
Now more like an open flame than a stain.
Now more like the great moving flame of current life
than either flame or stain.
Again,
the drama so tightly the sequence ran backwards.
Start to the door, wound his hand, arm back.
Give her a push inch toward her again.
His head. Look up at him. Park the car.
Take the ticket.
Enter the ramp.
She looks away.
She closes her eyes. She thinks that her thoughts.
She reads mail
She calls friends.
She does her job. She calls family.
She runs.
She meets friends.
And nothing ever changes.
Never.
Nothing changes.
Never.
Nothing ever changes.
Nothing. Never.
It never changes.
She looks by and she looks away.
She closes her eyes with a sense.
For a feeling. She has.
I'd call it a theory because it can be tested
against empirical evidence and it holds up.
I caught a theory he makes predictions.
Predictions like nothing ever changes.
Never.
She thinks other thought she reads the mail.
Nothing ever, ever changes.
Nothing changes it rotates.
That's not the same as change.
The main difference being that rotation is real.
Change is not. Change drags you along.
Rotation leaves you behind.
Change lures you to trends and fads.
Rotation decapitates.
If not this time around, then the next.
She calls friends.
She does a job.
She has lunch, she meets friends, and nothing ever changes.
Never.
It's just always and increasingly, always.
That weird rust stain.
Auguring into the earth.
That was in front of her, rotating that she drives in
that weird parking ramp
and like the random people rotating around that ramp.
Like a hamster in a wheel,
like a ball on a conveyor belt, like a careless dentist
rotating around an already removed abscess for no reason.
Like a bar that's too crowded to go to.
She reviews the incident again
and again.
Like any number of analogies
that only impoverish us all with their presence.
It coils relentlessly underneath her as she drives up
and in under each level each morning, returning to the originating
stained point where she begins the downward spiral of her day,
whirling and braiding herself through eight gyrating hours
of recollection.
Of recollection.
To amorphous, to shape,
but too sticky to release.
Like any number of analogy
that only impoverish us all with their presence.
The ramp curls willfully under her
as she returns to that red stained point,
and begins her downward spiral through the day.
Did you know that everything tends to drift to the right?
Well it’s a true story.
That stain
that booth guard knocked motion with an arm behind his back,
holding himself just to the side of unconsciousness.
She tuned her alarm with that terrible,
horning song.
That TV show scream.
Not the healthy cry of a newborn,
but a pathological yell,
a declining howl.
A strange
neonatal cry.
There it was in front of her.
I used to have all the self-confidence in the world.