In the Award-Winning Movie in My Head, We Are Infinitely Better Looking and Everything Makes Sense

If it begins with distance, distance is bridged.  Let's say a landscape with deer

running close together, their movement the sped-up avalanche

of leaning forward towards someone I want to kiss.  In the movie, I'm sure

that I do.  If no one likes this setting, it can be changed to the shuffle

of a deck of steel standing end on end; what we call buildings.  The windows

in winter sun glint bitterly in downtown Manhattan where, each

morning, commerce puts on her innocuous clothes.  It is perhaps unfeminist

of me to call capitalism a woman because now I've implied

whore.  If I sound furious I probably am.  Aren't we all just a little bit tired

of walking around unlovely, below billboards that vulture

the streets.  In them everyone is flat and so easy to read.  I am sick

of being clandestine.  I will put it on the table, see—

not like a spread of cards which could indicate potential cheating, but an unfurling

like a magician's scarf from a hat.  I want that flourish: what I mean to say

pulled forth like that.  Shouldn't communication

be simpler—just jump-cut childhood and montage the rest?  But don't I

so often think that understanding equals reading

all the books on someone else's shelves or that I can braille

the fingering of chosen songs and parlay an echoed movement

into seeing what's behind the skull?  And just as often I might say, "World,

take my keys.  Here's an address and a time to meet me.  Rummage

through possessions.  If you are sleepy, use my bed."  Let it be enough. 

Can't any of us project without talking? Turn off the lights and unspool film

through whatever tiny hatch, that opening

where a small light and a dark room do the rest.