Michael Brandonisio

Black Hole

It's like me. This body:space without ending. It's like it is, this. I've tried it, body:space. I don't know. If I feel, no, this body:space isn’t me, it’s around. There's no definition to it. I can speculate what may be certain. It's like I know that this body:space around me isn’t made of flesh:air only. I've tried it constantly – body:space, if this is what it is. This space, this body, I could say, no, nothing to say. It knows it is not. I can tell. There's body:space like this body:space around. I feel – body:space. Body:space doesn't recognize it is body:space. I've tried it. It isn't a simple feeling that holds a sense of its flesh:existence. It doesn’t, this body:space, say that I am anonymous, that there’s no end to the idea of body, identity, in this space, atmosphere. I am this body:space, inhabiting it, exposing it. I feel everything and nothing. I’ve tried illustrating it. I've tried to find its purpose here. This space, this body, revealed. I could show it, describe it. It's like nothing. I can place it. I may name it. I have. I could explain, if this explained isn't flesh called body, isn’t air called space, this, illustrated, revealed as is, the reality of it. Most know by now it isn't what it seems. I should know. I've tried the multiplication table. I can say it's like me. Bits and pieces of I, me. I am body:space overlapping words that I translate into significance, even a mere outline. I know what its exterior is, and what fills it when there is always me, someone who looks like me. I realized that. It’s not some parlor game tricked up for amusement’s sake. No, not I. I don't mean I. I don't. I've tried in innumerable ways to make this body:space fit into a precise geometry. But it's like it isn't I, this body:space that I say is I, me. There's I, there’s me, I don't know, if this is I, me, if it isn't, no end to it then, this. I feel nothing, no conclusion to it, if I feel this body:space, no, if this body:space ends, it's like it isn't around I, me at the end. It may never end. It's like something undisclosed. The un-. I don't know. It isn't touchable, deep down. It’s facade, surface. The un-. It may never be put to bed. It may never. No, yes. No end, yes, no end, no end. Beginning that was, yes. It began, yes, it began.


Michael Brandonisio's work has recently appeared in Danse Macabre and The Planet Formerly Known as Earth.
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Blogger rappel said...

i bet this would be really effective read aloud - a little video - with the image as background

12:50 PM  

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