Kit Frick

ORIGINS

In way after way, we mistake
our repeats. For newness.

For something other than blunder.

There is a way to remember
accurately. I’ve been told.
I don’t know it.

I’ve been told there is a way to move
forward, straightward.
Our bipedal trajectory made linear—

________all tangents cleanly
________amputated!

I can only imagine.
I can only rely. On faulty footage.
My own.

What I’ve managed to encode,
store, retrieve.

What I remember
about the past three years is
underlit.

Is available only
in analog.

Manifests as a bucked
wooden staircase. The crunch
of rock salt.

Between teeth. That retch.

In other versions,
that sweetness.

Salt dissolving to afterburn.

To something that tastes like
we haven’t been here before.

Something formerly unseen, unknown,
uncharted.

Un-possible.

We live lives that are televised,
digitized, recorded, un-
remembered. By most.

It’s okay. It’s no cause
for alarm.

________Don’t alarm!

We repeat & repeat &
repeat. Our words come out
dialtone. We monotone.

________We alarm!

We seek refuge. From our
present selves. That redundancy.

We try to remember.
Who we were formerly.

In our callowness. Nakedness.
Unrepeatedness.

That bloom. In that elsewhere
known only as past.

We mine & mine.

We find ourselves.
Sourceless. In that origin place.

________We alarm!

We look elsewhere.
Skyward.

We latch
onto the familiar—the slantlit
meniscus.

That hook. Like there’s
meaning
there.

Like we could find it.

If we could only adjust
the aperture. Perfectly.
Meaningfully.

We await visitation.
Of memory.

We put too much stock in it.
That bloom.

We wait impatiently, tangentially until:

here’s one: your small self
on the trampoline.

The backyard of that elsewhere
known only as past.

Adjust the aperture. To accommodate.

The bound & rebound.
Of your small self.

An earlier version. Not yet
redundant. Already
mistaken.

In its proximity
to newness. Its trajectory already

________nonlinear. It arcs!

It bounds & rebounds. It bursts
with overmuchness.

You absorb the again &
again of it. Your own

boundlessness. Your periodicity,
overmuch. That blunder.

That sweetness.

*

TO GROUND CONTROL

::

Please expedite
this request for new circuits.

Amidst weightlessness.
In spite of it. Apply

pressure until.

Breakage.

Until consumed
by ghost want. Hungry want.
Stray voltage. Sparks. Until.

Short circuit.

Until there’s no stop
to press. Press

until grounding. Commences.
Until your heart

brakes.

To a full & complete stop.

::

Suspended anti-atmospherically, it’s best not to question. Not to dwell on that video of swallows. Hundreds of birds locked in aerial ballet. Because you’ve felt it, how viral it is, how for a moment there’s no need for answers because this must be it. How they trick you into meaning. The swallows. The specialness of film. How they front like they’re everything, a long-term fix, like the answer is this moment, your life the movie, & how I believe it, I believe it, until I can’t.

::

See: False emotion. See also:
That clatter.

Ghost want, hungry want.
How it remains.

The questions pile on more
questions. Amidst

this floating. Please expedite
this request for meaning.

Please provide different stars,
different stars,

different stars…

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