WIL WHEATON AS ICARUS, DESCENDING
He exists, cast in glass, as if cat's eye in a marble.
In this role he is any one of my former friends
who have ceased communication. T(he)y (hey!) are
spectacular. The light attaches to them even
when there is little of it to be had. Watching him
is like watching the past pretending to be the future
and failing, fading at it, as the past always does, and as
our friends will do. There's a dove cradled
in his hands. Yes, it is a metaphor. Its obviousness
insults us. But watch his face. Here. I only watch the film
on pause. That way it doesn't disappoint, catastrophe
or change. We all exist like this, crystallized in flash
memory, stored on somebody's camera that they lost
late into the party, that got disposed of in the trash
and pressed down to landfill, that will be found
a hundred thousand years from now
like all of our collected layers: skin, slips, leftovers,
defibrillators, pacemakers, and other heart
accessories, clock radios reading out against the stink,
the darkness, blasting gangsta rap and disintegrating
under bass. Wheaton is not important.
He's a wedge in a crack and the weight of all balls
pressing on it. He, like the images, is barely readable.
If you look close, you'll see in each eye a dash of light against
all that other light wailing out of everything.