The first time I experienced sleep paralysis, I stared at everything in this room that is me and mine and not at all. The clock, a clowned play-toy, a fraud, a scheme. Alone is holy, no proof of its existence, faith.The sacred stillness of humanity is out here in the desert, it’s dust-aura monsoon tantrum— the breath of an asthmatic was-God. I love wearing sun-dried Levi’s, clothesline cotton, hand-washed bras.
If this isn’t my world, then why does it fit me so well?Why does the sea know to swell at my knees?Why does the night feel like a deep breath and the morning like an infant’s first gasp? My eyeballs, fluttering embers on soaked wood, my exhausted body soft in peace but the brain— zapping, stubborn, hungry, flammable. My lids burst open and my room becomes a landscape in which the furniture are mountains, and
Love is the glow of a red lamp shade.