“Cross Out The Eyes” by Thursday seems like it would be a fitting choice for the boombox to be playing in your sordid room as a character in Tony Hawk’s Underground, as you spin around and round and change your outfit. Eyes – The windows to the soul. Expressive pupils, discs of blackness – Frisbees sail on freely across the green in search of understanding. Eyelid opening is a birth in every blink. The child is perception and vision. Every time. Persistence of Vision – A Star Trek episode or a hardcore band? St. Lucy holding the dish with the eyes on it. This painting that rested on Nonna’s dresser that is now my dresser. I remember examining the photo as as child and being struck by it, surprised, shocked. Why were her eyeballs on the tray? There was a dull, distant in the eyes on her face, a rendering of her blindness. Patron Saint of the eyes, so I think. St. Lucy’s wheat. Every year a tradition I never partook in. Grain soaked for days. Eating to commemorate the ships coming to port during a famine like Sicily had never seen.
