JOURNAL: Flight AA4564 – Notes from the Disconnected

I feel so disconnected. Pictures of stars are trillions of seconds old, heliocentric. We spend our time wishing we could revisit a setting. I could see it in decimals, each dot a pause in a sentence. Hold my hand, avalanche. Bring me the check when you’re finished, mezzanine at the theater, velvet seamstress, Madam Gutierrez. Qué romántico eres. Carve my heart, au revoir mi mujer. I spend the evening in tears, like it’s common procedure. Every droplet is a sonnet, every water stream a cathedral where people gather, or they scatter, whether it be former or latter, and they pray to their Jesus, and I pray because I have to. There’s order in madness, rhetorical hope in the sadness, like a volcano that’s dormant or a star going dwarf, just part of it all, endorphin hull, heart to starboard. When we talk, disembark. Your lips press mute, Mrs. Vixen, so dissolute, pixel-perfect, lipstick in blue. Vigil for a virgin, vicissitude, picture me as I picture you. Don’t listen when you talk, kiss your ears when you moan, so petite, heavenly, pour the shot glass, and reload. Monkey see, monkey’s cheek perfect on your ocular bone, ’cause to me, you’re as sweet as a strawberry dose.

Through the darkness, on horses, cobweb corrosion, cut through the bark with my sword. I’m sorry, my forest, double entendre, knot in my throat, not even sober, harlequin clone, dark knight imposter, I’m already Joker. Early onset Alzheimer’s, forget what you told me. Along the lines, we’re ostracized, but we’re all really lonely. Wave down a taxi, drop me off on the corner, call me when you’re home. Wait for me at the door, don’t leave me alone. Lay down – the house spins, false belief, methadone, marmalade, cherry tree, cigar leaf, telephone. Qu’est-ce que c’est?

Fasten seatbelt while seated, mi amor, stand to applause, an encore, such a valid response, you’d barely feel it. You moved on, so very far. I checked my bags at the door, viewed the empty decorum, sat at the bar, recount the experience, watched the only bag revolve round the oval. Let me fall, so very scared. We should want what we fear.


Published by Cristian Leonardo Gajardo

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