was my own nervousness as the bass beat through its source, a black wooden box, its metal mesh, the thick summer air, my beat-up couch, and finally, my chest, caging the little beating organ, which made its own music. In the Pacific, scientists discovered a fish that showed what’s inside its head, glowing like an electric orb 2,000 feet below the ocean’s surface, caging its green eyes that filtered whatever reaching light. Was I being unconscious prey to something that, when the bass pounded fast, I thought it was my heart that sent a rush of panic, a second that bared my chest transparent?
of this same man, at the beginning of the month, in theories named God, or an amorphous figure whose face appear as one in separate minds, or a seeded concept from some big company wanting to sell something. I remember this painter who painted nothing else but white lace, draped at the end of a clothesline, rummaged out of a carton box, scarfing a lady and many, many children beneath her. She might have seen it, a glimpse of that one thread, a vision of one fine filament, woven and draped over all our heads, conjuring a million shapes that might as well have been an eye, a nose, a mouth.