Inner Record 1
by Benjamin Blevins
Red and green and
orange flashes. I forgot where I was. The sound
of a mother silently praying. The thrust
therein. My grace in movement—if my legs were
invisible, my upper body would move so
continually and effortlessly as I walked up the stairs.
Outer space. A huge room. A vacuum. The
opposite of a vacuum: a solid, an impossible wind.
The sound only you can hear inside
your body when you slowly roll your head around and
forcefully. The static electric event. The swallow. I
forgot where I was. A comfortable space with beautiful
colors. A cubic space with no curved lines. The
cigarette that does no harm. The cigarette that heals you.
The rabbits that step in front of me at night, right in
front of me, watching with only one eye. A bird: the swallow.