Rosetta Stone

by practicalspactical

I look at previous posts — with my spaced out em-dashes — like that, space, dash, space — not the correct way, I know — and it looks like data, like screens of the Matrix, like the human genome. Throwing stones at my back. Skip them across the water, like a record — the first time the rock hopped across the water

I can’t walk on water, per se, Jesus says, but I’m really good at skipping.

Water is taller than me. Taller than our souls. Taller than our souls are tall. Swim. Swim. Gattaca. A beautiful woman. Another beautiful woman. An endless series of beautiful women, and if I could only see my face, maybe, just maybe, a beautiful man —

Laying here on my bed. In a pink room. Warm like a heart. Not cold blue. Red. More Red, he said. A room somewhere else, elsewhere, an old bed with broken springs, a chair against the door, a dream battle with ghosts — and later, while I was elsewhere from elsewhere, another manchild with Jewish curls came there, and saw the room, and seeing the room, knew me to a T, knew of my sadness, knew of my loneliness, and said, with certainty, with confidence, “He needs more red.”

So it is. So it was. So it will be.

I scratch my shadows on the wall.

Mene Mene, Tekel U-Pharshin.

Always becoming. Never arriving.

A phone call with the answer. Eighty thousand dollars lying on the floor. Millions more. Millions more out there.

Mene Mene. Tekel. U-Pharshin.

Measure unceasing. The cubit is the measure of the King’s arm to his shoulder. Away. Out. Spiralling out from there. Wise Counselor who gets the Gyptians to barter away their freedoms. Never forgiven for that.