Ghost Vision

Everywhere I look, everything I see is white. If it isn't white, I see the absence of white and only register where white belongs. It is a color, a glow, a radiance, a blinding flash like seeing stars when you clock your noggin. It is not a racial color, nor is it dismissive of the various other colors of the spectrum. It is white, and that is the meaning of it. It is large white clouds or sickly white skin; it is microspecks of white on the carpet or pinpoints of white light emanating from distant and past stars. It is the wash of the bloated dead, the circular coldness of the commode, the blank stretches of uncaring snow, and the color surround of your eyes. It is Marta buses and panties peeking over the tops of pants and gnashing teeth and balms for burns and captioned letters across tvs in a bar where waitresses place white napkins down and snorted up fat, chalky white lines of withdrawn hurt in locked bathrooms. White is the light that projects my dreams against the backs of my eyelids; white is the last thing that will register when I expire; white is the burn and the embrace and the dissolving of a solid into a gas and into a general glow against the face of God above. White is innocence, white is fear, white is purity, and white is the emptiness that contains all things.