Dominos

The world is black and white-washed, I say (can you see?). Oh, say, José? Here, here! Where, where! Why there; but why, there? Black monolithic thoughts all lined up, ready to fall to a conclusion.

• A suffusion of perplusion;
• a confusion of perfusion;
• an impulsion of propulsion;
• a concussion of percussions; and
• delusions of black contusions with the whitehead dots of imagination that seem to add weight to the fall and other seasonings of the spice of life's seasons.

One menacing finger is all that's needed to push the first oblong piece meal of obtuse obfuscation — and I'm off into tangential thinking as the falling lines of dominos begin their sinusoidal collapsing of a susurus of serpentine paths through a mind less road-travelled, the black and white in the otherwise technicolor of reality, plotting to stop the cascade of falling blockheads that are me and my mind. I am all blocked up, but I'm up.

It is blockhead vs blockhead, and the head that's blocked the most will suffer the most blocked head, long and headlong, along the blocks of blocks. It's a race, but not racial. A fall, but not faltering. They will lay flatter but not flattering. They will topple but from the bottled bottom-up. One-upmanship always trumps downmanship. Unless you're on the ship going down. Kinship trumps dipship.

One man's downman ship on a manship is merely makeshift, in a shapeshifter's mind game of the falling dominos. They fall as me.

They fall on me.

That one menacing finger emerges just as they are re-set, obeying abeyance, and ready for the Great Fall. Meanderings of synapses, all giving up the fight against gravity, render an unbearable lightness of being. Oh, the gravity! Oh, the gravitas! Oh, the humanity! Oh, the you! Oh, the you-manatee!

Oh the men, oh the trees! There are men in those trees: is it a forest of trees? I cannot see that forest for those trees. Not with all these dominos in the way. That's why they must fall. They must be pushed. Who will do that for me?

My dominos stand erect, as erect as Homo sapiens and my libido, ready to sequentially engage in Purpose. After all, what is the purpose of the domino but to fall? What was the purpose of Man but to fall. Another season. Another man for all seasons. Of Original Sin. Committed, but not commissioned; comingled but not committed to.

We reach ahead to touch the shoulder of the domino standing in front of us, blocking our view of the other dominos, of the white dots ranging from zero to six, from hero to ticks of contact is, as contact does, pushing the next one down, a clittering, clackening of cluttered cloistered thoughts in disarray.

My mind so writhes globally, yet each line of sequence is a path unto itself, the multiple paths combed by the many forks in the cognizant roads, unto the pile of dominos are a squirming, buzzing mess of disordered thinking.

I am ready to blame someone. I am ready to ID the one whose errant, inconspicuous, malevolent finger digitated the initiation of my multi-fall. Who is that villain, my non-aluminated foil?

There's no one else here. So I must be talking to me. Who better to do that for me?