The Book of Weston

I am incubated in the blurry pixels,

immersed in the chunky geometry,

the comfort of repeating patterns,

a feast of candy colors, clouds

painted on solid not-solid walls

and on the dome of the surrounding skybox:

the distant not-distant firmament,

which fades from smiling sun

to starry nights to fiery dawns. Eternal life

is here somewhere in these polygons.

I have memorized this castle maze. Floating

through its halls, a happy holy spirit

hovering behind and above my head,

never straying, always watching.

And when I stand in front of mirrors,

instead of body, I see steam

evaporating in slow-motion.

Others roam these halls, not people,

only pixelated faces.

And on the lawn, a cubist lamb

rests its head in a lion's bosom.

I wander the perimeter

searching for edges,

but can't quite make it up

the too-tall hill; I slide back down.

Maybe I am the elect; I cannot die.

Sometimes I slip through gaps

into an infinite chasm and fall

into a fresh life. No height will do it,

no lava, water, nothing; I respawn,

trapped in eternal recurrence.

Ghosts don't die, they clip through walls,

and beyond: infinite sky. I shrink

and grow and ascend staircases.

I chase coins, passing time. I learn the rules:

avoid the edge, avoid the water, admire

the limitations of the creator.

Gradually I realize I am of the pixels

but not in them: something beyond

the oval of my sight, not this mirrored steam.

Everything outside is in.

Then there is a smoldering in my mind,

a shedding and a scraping away.

Nothing to lose. No longer holding

onto anything. Everything solid dissolves.

Who is watching this projection?

What is it? Who is asking? /hOO/ 23 8 15

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