High-rise
Escaping their velocity
No one knows where I came from. Not even me. Why I’m stuck. Why I entered a JG Ballard High Rise through the 27th floor window like spec ops. Or a bird. Glass flower shattered on the floor, I crush shards beneath tan Converse. Toilet been running like a melody for hours. New era ASMR. I go to the window and look at the streets. Utter madness in their walking. A competitive frenzy to do as they’re told.
I breathe in circles. You can’t see them. But I do. When I breathe, I see how my lungs cycle. Hold my hands to the sun and watch the cast shadow, thinking I’m with you again. Dimensionalized and resultant. I spin on my heels and make for the bathroom, jiggle the toilet’s handle. If you think about it I’m actually not. Stuck here.
There’s a stairwell but I don’t. Go there. Too much hazard to places where people travel up and down. Apartment living is better with unsolicited conversations. Eavesdropping through paper walls. Defying elevators, accepting fire escapes. Locking lips with jazz. Besides, they think I can’t leave and I want them hanging from the hook like bait. Someone might come along, swallow it whole. Take the line, believe the construct. The City’s story about me. He’s so and so. Does things this way. Thinks like that. Controlled messages.
