"Sunday"
"Friday"
The sequel to "Sunday"
"Travelogue: A Salty Wind, A
Briny Deep [Ode From A Bench]"
My award-winning piece.
The paper wrapped cone fell to the floor
spreading vanilla and chocolate over the
gridded tiles. The child whimpered at
the loss of its treat. Hot saline fell to the
floor, pounding in a rhythm of seven.
Bum-Bum-BumBum-Bum-Bum-Bum.
Bum-Bum-BumBum-Bum-Bum-Bum.
The clock on the wall sounded the
passing of the hour. The case shattered
and fell into itself. Blown away by the
flowing currents of time. A wind picked
up. Blowing incessantly onto itself, the
floor sank away. Darkness rained onto
the clock, leaving pinpricks of light in its
wake. The clock shattered, the light
faded away. The stars shone no more.
And from the impending shadows comes
light, pinpricks of heated colors shining
and conglomerating into coherent glass
sheets, curling into distorted planes,
locking in place. Pulling away, the
hours drain back, darkness flowing forth,
replacing regained time. Inversely
bright cycles of wind rush back, pulling
the darkness forward, forcing it all.
With forcing time, all things change as
they flow in currents reversing. And as
the hour wanes, back to chimes and past
with counterclockwise motions
accelerating. In rhythms of seven,
puddles of brine lift from floor through
air dehydrating, captured anew by tear
ducts. Slight sounds seized by throats
lined in chocolate. Arising from the
tiles, the ice cream forms an all too
cliché image as it settles upon the cone,
while the paper unwraps, settling back
into the box under the counter, all the
while rising.
A Salty Wind, A Briny Deep
[Ode From A Bench]
.
Cyclops
An unblinking eye, perched in blackness upon unbearable white. The whispering whistling of the wind rattles glasses, disturbing the all to imperfect silence. Lights in the periphery come and go like some transcendental boundary. The sun’s ghostly glow keeps the abyss from overtaking my world.
The wind, a companion for now, calls to me as if I were Odysseus culled by some siren song. A ghostly apparition, sweet Persephone, walks with me, staying ever-so much out of reach.
All feeling fades for-naught into the waters of my soul. Reflections ripple over me as the veil of mist shrouds a crescent moon. And for a moment of eternity, silence is truly golden, rippling reflections of waves on my stygian soul.
Swift
The wind, a harsh mistress. Her siren song breathes into you making pause and wonder. But, a kiss might tip over, and all will shatter.
Final
A flickering, red and gold and white. Lasting barely enough to catch it out of the corner of your eye. Blackness greets you when you finish the movement of your head, and you must wonder ‘Was it there, was it there? Am I just imagining it? A random reflection on the glass? Was it there, was it there?’
And turning again, a hint of a shape. A silhouette in the darkness. Until at last, all is lost, and you drown in the insight of the black.
Guardian
The brisk air blankets me. Protects me from myself. Its incessant flows and currents draw out the smoke from yonder, twisting it into whorls at the edge of the visible. Never repeating, but elusively the same, drawing one to conclusions of symmetry and identity. But the illusions are eternal not. With whistling and movement, you are lost, pulled into the whorls of mentality.
Castaway
I am lost. Adrift on a sea of everlasting despair. Gliding over stygian waters, away from the light. Will they find me? Will they want to? Or are they content to contemplate my closure as a passing trend? Why should I be adrift, when it is they who are despicable? So I will wait, existing as a bubble on the surface of a world I can never understand.
Loss
The pale illumination, barely casting a shadow, flowing to the hum and whistle of machines. Shall I miss you, my corner seat, insulated by glass and wood and rubber and iron? Will you miss me? Loathe am I to leave, to depart to a world of light and warmth and silence. If, if only ifs weren’t ifs but ares.
The ghostly glow is fading now, swallowed by my longing, casting me but like a seed of an apple. And I shall go, forever in search of again that moment of cold clearness.
Siren
And as I go to the place where no shadows tread and the wind pulls me to it, I am cold, awash with my own mortality, shivering in fear in front of the light. And I must wonder, longing to move to the light, a light strangely dimmed and brightened. And I hear the wash of surf and I call to it.
Return
And the warmth enters me again, and I am dizzy at the sensation. A rolling throb coursing through me, making it all seem transient. And I sit, in comfort reclining, and peer into the smoky corridors of my soul.
