panoptic gallery of living art
sitting on handmade mounds of dirt transfixed
on a VCR television:
the days when i first thought about unregistered electricity.
it was difficult to imagine, in the sunburn sky,
there was ever such a thing as invisibility.
everyone knows where everything is all the time.
even the bellman knew the shape of the morning clouds.
(an ocean leaks from the frame, staining the yellow wall.
on the other side of the hallway, an open field at twilight fades into night.
named phantoms wear gold badges and swing batons like lightning.)
every school keeps a list of the traits of each student,
both in content and interpretation.
to read their books, to eat their food,
we scanned our fingerprints before each interaction
for security and insurance. the differences between the two
become hazy in the waiting.
(on another wall, a farmhouse bathed in shadows
until you start to round the corner and it fades
into a sea of magma consuming a small island village.
the sign says “thank you for not touching the art.”)
the flavor of peaches; the gardens in every word.
(“thank you for not touching
the batons, which swing light lightning”)
i want to let the concrete melt away to fields of aroma.
the meaning of every word swims
in all the different juices of the mouth.
the color of their sparks, the shine of the dust lifted
and filtered through iron bars. what is freedom
without psychic chains? what is a landscape in a metal picture frame?
where are we?
About the Author:
Michael Quigg is a writer living in Illinois who is trying to be more involved in the indie literary community. He is one of the new prose/art editors for Full House Lit Mag, and has had several other published pieces, including one that will be featured in the Spring issue of Apricity Press. You can follow Michael Quigg on Twitter at @MStantonQuigg.
The Fantastic Other 