“The Future” & “Evolution is a Sort of Dementia”
by Leanne Ruell
If my body were as grey as winter, lumbering over you like a roll of shade; a face stubbled against the smooth glass of the decade’s wet dream, I’d not look at its entirety, but only the grey scale of being nearly without boundary. The body, diminishing to make more of itself— to lose
its personhood— (as if Jesus ever postured his divinity to save himself). The inclination to keep a boundary is inherently a weakness he thought while drifting to sleep.
When I was small I saw Jesus on the ceiling of my church swinging in a paradisiacal ballroom of light. He was all blue and sounded like a theremin, rising above the atmosphere and out his mother clapping with delight in the choir. It was her face I saw as I repeated the absurd episode in my mind, eating doughnuts after service, counting the winged hearts on my tights.
What I remember is that Jesus was himself a blue sheet dancing among the vents slowly and sensually the way he had before bed—wine-drunk, in-love, bubbling over with every future possibility.
Evolution is a Sort of Dementia
I wake in the dark to find the dog whimpering in his dream-induced argument with god; who, with its tender reprimand, fills the world with guilt over having failed the human. Even the apple has become a fatalist hanging a little lower, mocking our slow change in evolution— only to have grown a few inches over millennia— the apple literally falling into our mouths. At the window, I’m cleaving to the glow of a pale darkness; all the words that come to mind disperse their meaning in my mouth and I feel I’m a ghoul licking the waste out of of every star’s ass, just to get a little closer to a more informed language— with all my efforts I remain precision- less in the explanation that most words are parallel to the word nothing sin for example— the first to fall away into the bucket of every sparkling lie we’ve defined ourselves by.