understated media. 7.
We are awash with air, but there the air is faint, overwhelmed by sky. That air plays light chromatic chords on distant clouds--white half-diminished, blue tritone, grey-flat major. Mountains too speak softly, but with clarity; they drift through sky and air, towards some solid and nebulous future of their own.  
  Some moon turned to me and asked for spare stars, though they were closer to him than to me. I showed him my empty hands, turned my pockets inside out, then my bones, then my gods. The moon spat, said I was holding out. I didn't care. I had my own voids to consider.
There was fire in torches and pits and minds, but one part was reserved for separating insect souls from winged flesh. I remember asking one of them, as she died, what she wished her last meal had been; she had only time for the consonant "K..." before she was consumed entire.  
  My gray matter is an unhappy medium, a clumsy quivering gel, thick with introspection and sloth. Mouth and ears (brain/sky interfaces; semi-permeable idea membranes) are hampered by this sadly limited internal transference. I can only ask for patient and painstaking absolution.
Water, that egotist, was the loudest of the lot, with bright and brash fanfares to herald its passing. But its very arrogance limited its interest in us to a perfunctory glance, brief, though snide enough. And water, for all its pride, is also smothered by sky. It only dares to exhibit itself when sheltered by mountains; outside those protective walls, it cowers and retreats from sky and sky and sky.  
And earth complains quietly about its weight;
the earth there, then, was 5% body fat.
But earth begrudged us our plays and ploys,
our earthy ways and joys.
  And, afterward, it had to admit that we had filled its depressions, for a time, if not forever. Do not doubt that it shifts ever so slightly, awaiting our return.
© 1997-2001 Narciso Jaramillo first person index | dyslexikon | nj's face