Written by Biff Mitchell


he called it arrival

a cross dimensional jump he said into a place or a state or a “just knowing” the arrival


that was when he could still talk

when he was still knowing here, and still knowing the cubes and spheres of three dimensions

of things that could be described he said in the cubes and spheres of here


these things he called the disjointed broken speech of half realities foundering on a plateau of meanings

crippled and foundering he said, flat, formless and lifeless compared to arrival


all around us he said, look, vibrations in a pool, crinkles and folds, just floundering around in the pool 

and we’re drowning in the pool he said, drowning in the flip flop of broken meanings


arrival he said would be painful but not nearly as painful as the dull gray swatches of ordinary here and now


fuck the sureness of straight lines and smooth curves he said, screw the rules and the fixed 

perspectives, the safety of the knowable ordinary, the slow death of sameness


he dissolved them, melted the lines and the curves, axon by axon, dendrite by dendrite, as his brain 

dissolved into a pool of new meanings, disconnected in the field of his arrival


in there, once, close to arrival, he saw an ancient Indian wandering through the woods

his body disintegrating with each step, and all the parts of him falling to the ground

fingers and ears falling to the ground, seeping into the ground part by part 

and the last part of him to seep into the ground was his smile


I am that beautiful Indian he said seeping into the porous ground of arrival


he went back again and again, to arrival, to be that Indian, to escape the cubes and spheres 

of here he said and seep visit by visit into the knowing of his arrival until there was nothing left of 

here to seep into there, into the rich red earth of arrival


and now his eyes stare into a place where he dances on the ceiling of his mind

and yells I’VE ARRIVED


Text © Biff Mitchell



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