Knowledge of Surface In some suburb, freshly dribbled dreams niggle on, brooding on flat rubber legs, going to seed. This is grass. This is redwood, asphalt and glass. Curiosity snores in time with satellite noise. A droning stone-age boulder. "I know everything." "They told me." Stainless marionettes sleep in a magnetic field of the norm, pillow to pillow. Disinterested technicians, homogenized inside, seamlessly free. The retina lies at the core of their eye, rejecting zoology. Occasionally it displaces knowledge of surface with a wink and a gust, coarsening the soft grain of flannelled, plastic babies whose birthmarks glow beef-red against veal-colored skin. How quickly they scab over. Drying like faded tattoos in a wind scented with frying fast-food, waiting to be peeled back. One thin crusader stands in line, cheeks pink, rubbing bleary eyes. "I'll take some coffee, to go."
JAMES W JOHNSON