the church pitches up our cravings for tobacco.
we leave mother for awhile, solemn and enraptured behind the pews.
we gather where the cars tick and groan in the sun; a melancholic sheen over our eyes, seeing the same space but in its prior form –
wooden, single levelled, without oblong machines that cool the air, without the chandelier of personal tech, hanging over our heads.
a bicycle rim, gunmetal black, rolls steadily towards us as we consume and expound the complexities of smoke.
boy in skin tight cycling suit drifts to us, following the wheel that has turned to avoid colliding.
the boy walks on air like a next generation christ. his martyrdom a mix of mangled metal and skid marks.
i ask him how he controls the wheel with his mind.
‘does the force of magnetism come first from the heart?’
he gestures to the shapes of his sisters, climbing up the wall like an insect.
he levitates higher while speaking of points of focus, hand movements, mental designators
his sister turns like a spider on the ceiling and we want to mate, trapped in her web
we stand at red rows of tables with nothing on sale,
though vaguely –
we study a bible with myths unknown to history
#irvingpaulpereira #prose #sglit