Christian Wilson is a smooth criminal. Like an anthropomorphic sea anemone in the backseat of a Hummer limousine. Shoot, that’s one looney tune. Daffy Duck is muddled up with a dose of sleep deprivation. Too many groggy mornings where the mind is glued to the ceiling, the lockers, and the tile floors of East High School with inescapable tendons. Empty hands relax despite a swordfight with the tenth grade, a sophomore term in office with inverse tenure. The objective is to survive. To trudge through the capillaries of maturity, which clings and pulls like magnetic molasses to the bipolar reality of young versus old. To write is an all day slamathon with a make-believe gorilla.
It’s cranking a value in the engine room of a submarine until an eruption of steam fills the space. It’s a helicopter ride with the guy who invented helicopters. A jungle gym in the actual jungle. A highway to heaven in a hellhole, an escape into the mystical world of other people’s minds. When pressure builds on synaptic force fields, words bleed from burst cardiac walls, filling swimming pools with the after-birth of storytelling. It’s the conception of the new universes to conceptualize the dark corners of the one we live in.