Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome
In memories brought back to you by the smell of burning chrome,
ghostly wisps only there in your knowing of what’s to come,
you feel the non-weight of your future children’s hallowed hands
upon you forehead.
They live in a place called Neomantis, and you know it to be
without hierarchies, without the haters of now.
Through them you know light touches lithe bodies, you feel innumerable
unconscious thoughts mingling like notes from autonomous player pianos.
Unlike the syllables pouring from out the wetted mouths of soapbox men,
who are sounding out unfamiliar words:
jua kali, temazepam, sinker-mesh, aegis, and macro porous.
And you jotting down information — someone’s phone number,
a child’s shoe size, broken quotes from Dante and Huxley, or
that wild cyberpunk writer named Pfeil.
Until a slippery step, a frosty curb, a car out of control, and you flying
within the lighted siren sounds of emergency. Crash as exclamation,
A reconstructed jaw, a pinned eye socket, a joint with screws and
you taking copious notes on the as yet developing cerebral matter
of your future children’s anterior left hemispheres and distal axons,
about your night with that unforgettable smell of burning,
of peeling away at, of tasting the sweet, dirty chrome.
Of a crash that brought you closer to home.
K. Shawn Edgar | Rain Pilot | Long of Arm | Sovereign