Remi Recchia
I've noticed that your characters can't stop
drinking. I see hazy shots of self-
control crashing into gutters, windows, vampire
tombs in Israel. I see ghost-spire & castle-
knot. I see a grief so far gone it would rather haunt the screen
than stay folded in your wallet. Dani could save everyone
except herself. Theodora padded her body in black
leather. The priest, though faithful, raised
hands to the wrong god. Are you okay, Mike Flanagan?
I see jewels & smoke, hint of jukebox
burrowed in dusty crawl space. I see the wrong
earring on the wrong ear. I see
an affair in the window. Are you okay, Mike Flanagan?
I see myself in your rivered plots. I see my puke
caressing the needle like a song.
I see my elbows, throat, fingers, wrists
bruised by a hobgoblin twice my size. I see
rehab door & attic confiscating anything sharp
or ingestible. I see my DUI mirrored in Riley Flynn's
blue-red ribboned dreams. Am I okay, Mike Flanagan?
Mike, I see the gray matter of your brain, slipping
into the same plot on loop. Mike, I recognize
the impulse to graffiti your trauma on everyone's bed-
room walls, to present your shortcomings like a to-do
list. Our prayers are not unusual, Mike, shriveled dry
lips the only things sober in the confessional.
I see shotguns shaped like angel's wings, I see
bread that is actually poison, I see rowboats
divorced from nursery rhyme, I see dance studio
behind red door, I see tree house warped
in Steven's mind, I see sun spots on your brain.
I see you, Mike Flanagan. Mike Flanagan, I see you.
I see you & I know that in the end, when you no longer
know yourself, you're lighting that candle for me.