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kari edwards |
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hi, did I tell you my name is honey with an h?
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this was somewhere else, a persona hung around me like scent; an image of an image that had neither details or persuasion. perhaps I was drawn to this whiff of stale air because the face was familiar or the vocal cords seemed enveloped in a touchstone of security from my childhood, but at this point there was nothing more than a vague shadow-show in front of me that may or may not have been. my options were to carry on the conversation with an image that might amount to nothing more than talking to myself, or find some other route that produced different special effects. in either case this conversation or another might continue, but with less distinction. could it be this was nothing more than a walk-on into my own personal story by some two-bit player who the director owed a personal favor to?
as the monologue continued, I noticed each of my forward motion steps had its own particular momentum, time lapsed as each step made contact with a momentary edifice, sending a slight vibration thru the cartilage, thru the soul in doubt and out into the universe. at the same time I was aware how my mouth moved, ears tingled, and how my brain recalculated substance. I was aware at that precise moment, how a response to my confessor child molester next to me, was stalled on the tarmac. this individual kept talking in slow mumbles. we both kept walking but in slower versions, dragging our shadows into the past hour. somewhere a brick fell on a vowel, the letters rearranged themselves into something that resembled jackson pollock's later struggles. a panic set in, mild at first, followed by a splattering of pain, mixed with the coolness of the earth, foliage, fried eggs and meat; a hodgepodge of letters that converged on a single vein, causing severe blockage and then the conversation continued at a normal speed, as if nothing had occurred.
I didn't want to answer any questions, it seemed imposed on the past, a color before thought, a double dotted line and the beckoning buddha bellies of sanctioned killers, but what do I do when statements are thrown at me like —
—I will dress you up as my own personal hypnotic inner-link . . . I will make you beg for chapter and verse . . .
I could feel an air of superior aggression mounting from the inner galactic, I stopped and turned to this flaying image —
—you are currently over your credit limit . . . do you really want more? and can you handle me? I promise you no one position is suitable . . . and not one orifice exists that I have not explored with entire television crews . . .
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