inconceivable wilson (2 excerpts)
J.A. Tyler

Go. He goes. Broken lines and the shape of circles. Circles. Go. He goes. The outside peeled off and he is in. He goes in. Go and he goes. No hands pushing his back and he went, goes. There is going. And underneath, where the skin of him pulls off and reveals those redundant dreams, mimicry of memories, remembering. Remember he thinks and cannot. Remember just now, when the layers reversed and he became inside out. Inside the outside of him, standing in the dark and with eyes returned backwards, birthed back to night as he is. Skinless and unshielded. Go, he goes. Go. He goes. He goes. Go.


Inside an arm reaches and he shakes hands with it, repeating in his head like a phrase nice to meet you nice to meet you nice to meet you. An arm reaching out, wet fingers and a dark hand. It is all dark hands, the gone going, sons to this water bubbling, this pot. He sees his eyes backwards, the black here a vision of his inside head, the closed off and ended road of him. Coming here he came here and became in him this boiling pot. A pot boils an arm, a hand reaching to him. Dark hands stroke his face and dip bone spoons toward his lips. He drinks, baptized in them, head under and swallowing, white swallows turned bat, gravel pebbles beneath and forever walking into them.