Old World: a short film
Brooks K. Eisenbise
Old World: a short film
act i.
the windows are rolled up and still
we are covered
in opaque city air our lungs are full and
we do not cough in the middle
seat of a car that is not mine my
head is on your shoulder / the neons blush
the windows pink I can hear your bones / settle /
I can hear you bear the weight of me.
we park but we never stop moving and the puddles on the asphalt glow
cotton candy blue I drop to my knees and lick the light and I am alive /
you draw black and shaky sharpie hearts on my neck in the parking lot and
laugh like I should kiss you and I could /
you are inches away and I am not afraid
I am not afraid and
I am not afraid and
I am not afraid.
act ii.
the party is a rush hour subway car / sweaty forearms across
my chest hot strange
breath blown in my face on the back of my neck like
smoke like steam like
the light through a window that catches dust in the air /
it’s brighter here with my eyes closed /
I imagine what the hands on me must look like
/ specks of dirt dark under fingernails sweat-shined exposed and
everywhere every where / all over /
and I count them /
and I can’t / and I am not afraid / and I am
not afraid and I / am and / I / am / and I
and I am not and I am / and /
act iii.
and this is not something to survive / and this is never
obsolete. and
I am touched. all the time.
October 2025
Old World: a short film
February 2021
the windows are rolled up and still
we are covered
in opaque city air our lungs are full
and we do not cough / in the middle
seat of a car that is not ours my
head is on your shoulder / the neons blush
the windows pink I can hear your bones settle
I can hear you bear the weight of me
we park but we never stop moving and the puddles on the asphalt
glow cotton candy blue I drop to my knees and lick the light and I
am alive / you draw black and shaky sharpie hearts on my neck in
the parking lot and laugh like I should kiss you and I could /
you are inches away and I am not afraid
and I am not afraid and
and I am not afraid and
I am not afraid.
the party is a rush hour subway car / sweaty forearms across
my chest hot strange
breath blown in my face on the back of my neck like
smoke like steam like
the light through a window that catches dust in the air /
it's brighter here with my eyes shut /
I imagine what the hands on me must look like and I count them
and I can't / and I am not afraid and I am
not afraid and I am and I am and I am and
and this is not something to survive and this is never obsolete / and
I am touched all the time
Untitled
the windows are rolled up and still we are covered in opaque los angeles air and our lungs are full and we do not cough / in the middle seat of a suffocating black SUV my head is on your shoulder as the neons blush the windows pink I can hear your bones settle I can hear you bear the weight of me
we park but we never stop moving and the puddles on the asphalt glow cotton candy blue I drop to my knees and lick the light and I am alive / you draw black and shaky sharpie hearts on my neck in the parking lot and laugh like I should kiss you and I could / you are six inches away and I am not afraid
the party is a rush hour subway car / sweaty forearms across my chest hot strange breath blown in my face on the back of my neck like smoke like steam like the light through a window that catches dust in the air / it's brighter here with my eyes shut / I imagine what the hands on me must look like and I count them and I can't / I reach out and hit someone solid and I do not have to pull away
and this is not something to survive and this is never obsolete / and I am touched all the time
March 2020
Process Statement
This was one of those rare pieces that sprung from my mind in its entirety upon waking from a very vivid dream. The first COVID-19 shutdowns were just beginning in Michigan, and my dreams had illuminated a world I'd been longing to find my entire collegiate career (and never had): the kind of hazy, neon-tinted party you see on TV, the one that finally convinces you you're worth something, the one that marks the beginning of your real life. Now that world had completely disappeared, and this vision—and the words it inspired—were its last remnants. When I revisited this poem months later, my acute panic and grief had made way for a bitter and isolated monotony, but also a deep clarity regarding those terrifying first days of lockdown. The world I had written about was gone, but the moment I had dreamt of was more alive than ever in my memory. By playing with word choice, breath, repetition, and line spacing, I could more fully encapsulate the feeling of that fictional moment; it was something I could create for myself on the page, even if I couldn't find it out in the world (yet).
Brooks K. Eisenbise is a Chicago-based writer and artist whose written work has been described as “unheld by the orthodoxies of belief, politics, or aesthetics” and “willing to stretch the boundaries of the page.” You can catch them reading, beading, and pontificating on Instagram or Patreon at @eyesnbyes.
Read Issue One