I sit on the floor of the eye, the lid wafting over my body,
forming a triangle with my toes, nails raised to my face,
stained, wet, posed before the cracked flesh of the fly-eye.
A single bulb illuminates the amber varnished pine panels, the eye-lid blinking.
And from where I sit on the floor, the fruit opens its mouth,
a mute chick's, brilliantly red, obsequious, begging naively for life.
Outside, the eye lazily opens to reveal the fluorescent street lamp, so bright I can taste its photons,
the metal head an ascerbic insect, narrow, lunging in its mechanical way for the catch,
for cars that clog the freeway during January's rush hour, just a million salmon during mating season
swimming upstream hundreds of thousands of miles, the reasons for their costly migration still unknown by scientists. What the salmon don't know is that most of them will never make it home, and perhaps to the advantage of their species, so that their offspring can continue up the freeway to roar and thrash at the air,
buzzing with white yellow packets like a flower pollen distributed by bees,
or the spores of a puff fungi, kicked into the air in great flumes,
bearing light, sounds of bus brakes, funelled air, cigarette smoke,
and the narrative voices of hipsters.
It is here that I split the mottled red sack into pythagorean pieces, counting each one like months in a year, and allow the blood to pour into the blackened spaces of the floorboards and map out market patterns in a crooked line down my leg as my teeth eagerly
scrape, scoop reveal fish eggs and dreams, red eyes clinging to their sharp chiclets. It reminds me of the time I spoke too quickly for my boss. Her voice radiated tangency, filth, corruption and not-so-veiled guilt.
Above me, the eyeball roll to reveal only white,
and by body revels in its apathy.