Seen And Not Seen
rating: +2+x

I look in the mirror and confirm that my eyes are too close together.
I reach this conclusion first by touch, then by factual observation.
Looking at photos of models in two thousand and seven magazines
and for scientists who come to chat from time to time.

On Thursdays and Saturdays we schedule experiments where I am killed
and revived with the push of a light switch.
I kind of don't feel pain, it's like sleeping without having a dream
in a dense pool, falling apart.

They describe me from my deaths because
my life doesn't seem to be fantastic enough.
I see all the seven hundred colors
but I like to have a secret of my own.

Some make me dizzy if I look too long and
two of them give an abrasive sensation.
Forty-seven give hunger.
I married ten and
had sex with three and
killed nine.

They see me seeing what they don't see.
And ask and record and analyze with equipment that sometimes works
and sometimes they stop working.
And it is not so much my fault as to unadapted engineering mistakes
for delicate situations like immortal mortals.

If you understand me.

I prefer our conversations too ephemeral to catalog.
The ones that make me feel like I'm in a telemarketing office
drinking a drip of boiling coffee in a plastic cup
that lead me to think:
It wouldn't be better if they were glass cups.
We are adults and we have a sink right there.

We sat on the folding chair (you) and on the bed (me).

Why that, I ask.

Because you shouldn't be.

Is there an end, I ask.


Many of them luck by chance, stars lining up.

I imagine that the limbo is just like that.

No, spirits don't exist, I reply.


Have they already broken the rules, I ask.


What is the frequency, I ask.


They should appreciate life more, I hope.

I hope too.

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