His heart faded, withdrawing from the burden of the conflict, panning the night sky, holding off the knowledge the slightest of winds could still the stars in their orbit.
Firefly flickers sparked hallucinogenic across his line of sight in the unlit rented room where he had come to rest, come to some static pause between bouts with the pain that weakened him, robbed him of his breath. He stared, searching for the ceiling in the darkness.
Looking up from the stretcher into the neon structures was becoming a familiar scenario. The thought that he could gasp his last breath in the antiseptic light had an ironic appropriateness.
Once again his love of flowers flitted between poppy and lily like some honey bee in search of the rarest of nectars.
How rich it made his words.
How desolate it made his life.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
By Way of Introduction
He was born near deaf, with only a rudimentary concept of sound, deaf to the dripping tears, deaf to fluid motion, struggling through the rain that weighted his clothes, struggling through the frost and fervor that caused him to shiver with genetic defects.
Struggling against all the hands that would plunge him screaming beneath the water.
To breathe and speak in fluid terms became an acquired taste, much like the honey of ancient Egypt, much like the curing of weathered leather, much like struggling until the gaunt porcelain cracked like hard boots on salt crust. And they thought it was an affectation…
He was aware it was hard silence. Especially for one so young to bear.
Struggling against all the hands that would plunge him screaming beneath the water.
To breathe and speak in fluid terms became an acquired taste, much like the honey of ancient Egypt, much like the curing of weathered leather, much like struggling until the gaunt porcelain cracked like hard boots on salt crust. And they thought it was an affectation…
He was aware it was hard silence. Especially for one so young to bear.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Life of a Doppleganger
(for ToriBell)
The demi-tasse had taken on Wonderland qualities, balanced between her thumb and finger, this essence of coffee, this “drink me” potion. She felt she should make a statement in best literary mode, an observation, a bon mot in-joke that would make the waiter blush at the sight of her dimpled smile.
She waved him to her table with a discreet finger motion, dabbed at the crumbs of cheesecake and giggled, “Clean plate! Clean plate!” in her best twelve-year-old voice.
The crimson reward of his awkward desire was brief amusement on this quiet Autumn afternoon. But Alice had plots to plot, scenarios to paint, tea parties to attend.
The crisp indirect sunlight was postcard perfect in its illumination of the banalities occurring on the far side of the storefront glass, clusters of dead leaves stirring lightly in brief pirouettes of wind.
She was fond of Autumn, a season where whole forests accessorized the random curls framing her face with complimentary reds, oranges, yellows.
It was as if the physics of her immediate surroundings harmonized with her refined sense of style, magnetic lines ordering the aesthetic placement of objects at the molecular level, mise-en-place.
It was from this center of silence the words metabolized, the images found their descriptions, she spoke the poetry that, ultimately, brought her amusement.
The demi-tasse had taken on Wonderland qualities, balanced between her thumb and finger, this essence of coffee, this “drink me” potion. She felt she should make a statement in best literary mode, an observation, a bon mot in-joke that would make the waiter blush at the sight of her dimpled smile.
She waved him to her table with a discreet finger motion, dabbed at the crumbs of cheesecake and giggled, “Clean plate! Clean plate!” in her best twelve-year-old voice.
The crimson reward of his awkward desire was brief amusement on this quiet Autumn afternoon. But Alice had plots to plot, scenarios to paint, tea parties to attend.
The crisp indirect sunlight was postcard perfect in its illumination of the banalities occurring on the far side of the storefront glass, clusters of dead leaves stirring lightly in brief pirouettes of wind.
She was fond of Autumn, a season where whole forests accessorized the random curls framing her face with complimentary reds, oranges, yellows.
It was as if the physics of her immediate surroundings harmonized with her refined sense of style, magnetic lines ordering the aesthetic placement of objects at the molecular level, mise-en-place.
It was from this center of silence the words metabolized, the images found their descriptions, she spoke the poetry that, ultimately, brought her amusement.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Symphony of Sadness, a Melody of Time
(for Velocity)
She was running now, faster than she thought possible. Outrunning the rush hour traffic that pulsed with indignation and distraction. Outrunning the flashing and freezing fits and starts that posed with momentary acknowledgement. Outrunning her own ability to breathe.
It was a force of will that created this necessity, this insistence, this “convulsive beauty” that stirred such jealousy in those that fed their egos on the transient fruits.
It was a force of will that drove her to travel any distance to achieve what she felt was, ultimately, the ability to fly.
It was a force of will that mocked her talent for watching the sun rise and set on opposite oceans.
It was a force of will that broadcast to the world the portraits of her dreams, through wire and wind and pixilated canvas, to rest like new fallen snow on the histories of Montparnasse.
And when she had outrun the sound of her own voice, past the barriers where light and time were condensed into theories, past the compensated days, past her plans and calendar notes, past where she ordered her thoughts into the tight bundles of concepts, she heard the silence of her heart and wondered if anyone was listening.
She was running now, faster than she thought possible. Outrunning the rush hour traffic that pulsed with indignation and distraction. Outrunning the flashing and freezing fits and starts that posed with momentary acknowledgement. Outrunning her own ability to breathe.
It was a force of will that created this necessity, this insistence, this “convulsive beauty” that stirred such jealousy in those that fed their egos on the transient fruits.
It was a force of will that drove her to travel any distance to achieve what she felt was, ultimately, the ability to fly.
It was a force of will that mocked her talent for watching the sun rise and set on opposite oceans.
It was a force of will that broadcast to the world the portraits of her dreams, through wire and wind and pixilated canvas, to rest like new fallen snow on the histories of Montparnasse.
And when she had outrun the sound of her own voice, past the barriers where light and time were condensed into theories, past the compensated days, past her plans and calendar notes, past where she ordered her thoughts into the tight bundles of concepts, she heard the silence of her heart and wondered if anyone was listening.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Murky Mirrors (Chicago Motel)
“I am cleansed in dilapidation”
-- Velocity
The ash trailed across the bureau top leading to the spot where the cigarette had spent the last of its kinetic energies and burned its death mark into the cheap veneer.
How she ended up in this motel was the mere whims of transit and economy. Why she stayed… That was more difficult to explain.
The Red Line south provided the outskirts of a muted bass line to her thoughts, comforting in its regularity. Life had been constant movement lately, a state of opportunistic flux, from shoot to shoot, from dream to dream, from paycheck to paycheck. It whirred like a pinball machine as she paddled for a higher and higher score.
And then she found herself in this static room with its dim lights and murky mirrors, with its silence, it absence. Not sure why she was staying. It was difficult to explain.
Perhaps it was the sound of purposeful round-the-clock traffic contrasting to the intentional ennui of her lying on the sofa.
Perhaps it was the calculated appearances of morning business traffic that she slept through after a night of dull buzzing insomnia.
When she awoke to the early afternoon light bullying its way past the weakly resistant curtains it was with a certain sense of sadness, as if she had missed those few useless vacant moments when the dust floated through the rays of coffee break sunlight.
She stared into the mirror at her smeared make-up and savored its absolute anarchy. As if she could afford to give away personal beauty due to its abundance.
What in this context held her beyond the uncomplicated air?
What in this context held her beyond the thought she had fallen below the radar?
What in this context held her beyond the ability to transcend the limits imposed by its implications?
She was cleansed by the dilapidation, freed from any consistency, freed from phone calls home, freed to define words with whatever personal meaning she invested.
-- Velocity
The ash trailed across the bureau top leading to the spot where the cigarette had spent the last of its kinetic energies and burned its death mark into the cheap veneer.
How she ended up in this motel was the mere whims of transit and economy. Why she stayed… That was more difficult to explain.
The Red Line south provided the outskirts of a muted bass line to her thoughts, comforting in its regularity. Life had been constant movement lately, a state of opportunistic flux, from shoot to shoot, from dream to dream, from paycheck to paycheck. It whirred like a pinball machine as she paddled for a higher and higher score.
And then she found herself in this static room with its dim lights and murky mirrors, with its silence, it absence. Not sure why she was staying. It was difficult to explain.
Perhaps it was the sound of purposeful round-the-clock traffic contrasting to the intentional ennui of her lying on the sofa.
Perhaps it was the calculated appearances of morning business traffic that she slept through after a night of dull buzzing insomnia.
When she awoke to the early afternoon light bullying its way past the weakly resistant curtains it was with a certain sense of sadness, as if she had missed those few useless vacant moments when the dust floated through the rays of coffee break sunlight.
She stared into the mirror at her smeared make-up and savored its absolute anarchy. As if she could afford to give away personal beauty due to its abundance.
What in this context held her beyond the uncomplicated air?
What in this context held her beyond the thought she had fallen below the radar?
What in this context held her beyond the ability to transcend the limits imposed by its implications?
She was cleansed by the dilapidation, freed from any consistency, freed from phone calls home, freed to define words with whatever personal meaning she invested.
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