Caricature of Intimacy

May we hold a meeting of conjoined minds, or do I need to speak aloud? This is important. It’s about all the rocks you’ve strewn about simply to prove that they cannot be lifted or made into anything. Then again, it’s also about the way clouds reflect in water and the way rain shrouds hot asphalt in rolling mist. Do I need to say this out loud, or can you hear what I am thinking? Can you hear it? It is about the superficial dimensions of skyscrapers and brick and sheets of glass juxtaposed against the backdrop of expansive sky.
But what of those rocks? Take no disrespect; I know better than to question your plan, but will we be receiving blueprints soon? I imagine we’ll have the technology to lift such weighty things, and by then, well, maybe it’ll be clear as to where you want them. But fire and brimstone. The tower of Babel. Have we not tried before? What is in this teasing?
If stacked one upon the other, these unliftable rocks, could I conceivably climb the structure and reach my fingers toward that expanse? Would I be any closer than I am now, sucked to the earth? The serpent was sucked to the earth, the belly crawler, but what has that to do with me? My forefathers and mothers were fooled, they were had. Are we doomed to slide along through muck? If I reach toward where I think you are, the sunlight refracts from beneath my nails, splitting and spilling everywhere. Is that you? The sunlight itself is refracted and tainted through cloud and atmosphere. After petroleum and necessity and society, can you even reach me through the glass cased stratosphere? Do we not all lean toward the same sun? Do we not climb and climb? Do you not sense the ambition, the worship, to glorify some aspect of you? But what do you expect? What can we know? All we have to show for our efforts are rocks, stacked upon each other, carved into saints and buttresses and echoing domes. And a gift shop in the corner.