The Crisis of Infinite Worlds

Krystle Krystle Cole you're all I thought about sometimes I watched you while our daughter slept your Sissy Spacek ways your laconic demeanor in relaying either ecstasy or trauma & the un-embittered empathy your voice conveyed on YouTube which is our loving cup the solution of butter & DMT you took anally that really made you freak the fuck out & your friends just stood there watching you as you hurtled alone through mirrored tunnels. It's that frictionless feeling the smooth & vacant course that lacks abruption, one wave the clinical mania un- differentiated whiteness contains when cylindrical cloud hard & plastic comes to represent the mind to the mind & thus describe a model of terrible momentum with unity of purpose toward nothing so much as cold, radiant nature stripped of Eros, of becoming, just the mainframe & its withering severity without any predicate of others, save perhaps their gazes, no walls, no nothing, completely white light & your name when your consciousness was splitting time was stopping you were going always into that. I was going always to the mall in those months, the young century's rainiest April & May, to walk the baby & to understand my art. I didn't understand. I would move the stroller through the halogen, over grooved tile & across those smooth marble expanses meant to simulate floating & gliding before that pure frictionless feeling was entire. Sometimes we'd go inside the stores. Sears was still enormous & because of its design implied a bound series of discrete, related worlds linked by passages threatened & precarious to me. The connections felt besieged or like a mask for separation, they felt like connection between us in life but I didn't take my allegory further Krystle Cole, into your lysergic delirium later redeemed by a beautiful discipline of spirit & cosmography developed for praxis. I liked your video on candy flipping hard & developing ESP with friends. It suggested oneness was a leavened mix of random indiscretion, bruising wariness, & bliss obtained by synchronizing chemical encounter. Krystle, there's a made up drug I wonder if you'd do it? Bradley Cooper, in Limitless takes this little pill, which, in its candy dot translucence looks a lot like a tear plucked from the cheek in Man Ray's "Larmes." With it, he can utilize all of his brain, & so he un-riddles the patterning hidden in the ceaseless flow of capital, structuring its chaos in excess of any mortal with a terrible momentum & unity of purpose toward nothing so much as pure profit & complete subordination of the world. At the mall certain spots sold old stuff: sports memorabilia & video games, vintage organs & deluxe baby grands. In one store there were highly priced comics with toys & ephemera related to the stories. They had action figures based on some series I guess called The Crisis ofInfinite Earths. I wrote the phrase down in my notebook & realized only later that I'd made a rather telling trans- position, putting the word 'world' where 'earth' was & thinking The Crisis of Infinite Worlds I guess because anyone will occasion the world as a world its commonality precarious but real, & the person beside them does the same the person far in every way from them will as well where the wound of even being in material conditions where consciousness is made these confrontations & arrangements each taking their referent then as earth or taking something else entirely as world—the word is profligate & dense & transparent & cheap & impossibly one the clearest pill. In our minds it floods with light & we see through that, life's benevolent corruption in a radiance we can't make any sense of. Krystle, have you ever, just standing around, noticed someone smoking in an older silver Volvo & watched the comeback feelings of a Tupac Easter Sunday steep in their ambivalent features until they are more radiant than cinematic virgins having lost it in the wake of Saint Maria Goretti whose patronage is lost to the brutalized sweetness of her charges when depicted in the mind & reconstructed as a low-res simulation by scientists the weekend Wall Street's occupied & particles are found to go faster than light then weirdly feel like this is paradise not for people but paradise regardless. That same May I had gone to Detroit. I saw the most wonderful graffiti, more a prayer, written on a wall in magic marker, it read— Two Things: 1) That we would grow closer & closer as time progresses. 2) That our ships would not crash. Magic marker on a surface doesn't have much depth of skin. You move it smoothly on the wall & it stays smooth barely records the softest friction of two separate textures meeting. The wetness of its onyx dries quick or even quicker if you blow on it with circled lips, like clouds in old maps that blew ships across a flat earth to an edge I don't exactly not idealize. That somewhere there's a precipice in this world & tracing my finger along those ardent lines I'd found the fault of it a little, in its boldness far too faint & not enough.