(once i had a dream and it was a lame dream and it’s not nearly ghoulish enough to win you over, but maybe you might appreciate it. apologising in advance.)
he is standing behind the desk; turned away from me; overlooking the world beyond the window (a world i’m blind to.) if he were a man, he would be observing his city. if he were a king, he would be regarding his rule.
but he is neither pitied man nor cherished king.
he has been, however, an idol to both.
i’m watching from the threshhold. the room is very large, and all mahogany. but nearly empty. the entire wall opposite me (the one he’s facing) is glass. beyond it i see blue, and apparitions of other skyscrapers akin to our own.
and now he turns. his suit is red; wine-red, like lips. ruby as roses. the colour of blood. precisely vermillion.
his head is not.
it’s an orb; a swirling mass; a live, pulsating, vortex of a thing; it is a minuature, breathing galaxy. pale emerald, all of it. swirling, spiraling. animated.
and as he turns, the spiral smiles. it smirks, as if it knows all the universe has to offer. and it does, of course it does. he is every star, every planet. the galaxy man. mister multiverse. monsieur metaverse. the doctor of stars, the shaman of quasars, the summoner of nebulae and birther of black holes. within the vermillion suit and charcoal gloves is more dust; more stars; more space and breath and life.
he starts to speak; and he opens his million-dimensional heart and mouth, and just as every secret of the universe, every whisper of what an old one would call khora, and what our mathmeticians call a geometrical conception of space, or our poets call non-euclidean gravitational stuff,
a pen drops.
a pen drops on the floor of my high school maths class and i am awake again, face pressed into the cool paper and the algebraic equations and the amphibian doodles in the margins of my notebook.
but i find him each night since.