Don’t Look at my Eyes

I was a paragraph when the time called for a sentence. A simple declarative string of words: like, ask not what your country can do, or whatever. I bumbled out, vommited, yes, a blog of whiney, needy complaints until she was like, whatever, I’ll take the sunglasses off your bill — and here I was arguing at a mall kiosk when it hit me: I need to go to Easter Island.

I found love upside down while the movie projector scrambled hidden messages between the frames of the buildings blowing up and the cars flying off cliffs. She smelled of wheatgrass and expensive sheets. I was 33 and just as terrified then as I am now.

The tide was washing back out to sea and taking the soda cups and political speeches and cocaine lines with it. There was a plane trailing a banner that advertised laser surgery and I wondered who they thought was going to read it. My sunglasses blocked out the light that tried to blind me. I typed her number into my cell phone but remembered we don’t speak anymore so I went on Amazon and ordered another pair of sunglasses.

Don’t look at my eyes.

All the uncovered statues had very large stone eyes. The tour guide explained all about how they moved the statues into place using logs and that’s why there are barely any trees on the island, and that’s why all the people, most of them anyway, perished. First the trees then the soil then the food and then the people. It was very bright.

My sunglasses don’t come cheap.


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