The Missing Thirteen-Twenty-Five

ACT I

Hours seemed to have elapsed, even though the clocks, all of them, every damn single one, are screaming at me, indicating that only thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds are missing.  Staring at the wall, I don’t think of arterial spray, I’m imagining myself back at the MOMA and falling in love all over again.  My feet seem to sink deep within the tiled walkway that connects this living area to the open-air freedom of the world outside.  My hips don’t want to move forward. Instead they seem to have lost that capability, caring not for progress, which, I must now question how much was actually made this afternoon.  The details are still foggy, all of them.  Yet pieces return as each second longer I stand awakened.  The scent disturbs me.  This I know.  Yet I am numb to the visions.  I feel as if cotton swabs are pressed within the ears and yet, still, the ringing tolls of bell-like clangs continuously ring, over and over again, like the stories told from those sufferers of tinitis.  I believe it must be something close to what I am hearing now.  The intensity quivers, wavering between blare and flat line.

I press my hand to the clear-through door, watching the blades of uncut grass move as if the world is no longer as fluid as I always felt it to be.  It stands tall, each blade erect, moving, as slow as a windless day could possibly induce. I’m leaning upon the door.  Breath seems to stutter.  I feel the skipping beats from beneath my chest.  I open the door, sliding it only enough to slip out into this other world mere inches from where this thinly framed glass had portioned me from.  I remove my right hand from the glass itself and notice my palm print embroidered  in vivid red.  I look at the right hand, then to the left, then both arms and they are no longer fleshy pink, but bright, bright blackish red, smeared upon me.  I bend my neck downward, and notice my clothing is also dyed…

ACT II.

“I thought I told you to arrive at five”

{this is phil, marcus’ little brother.  Nothing like him. he looks awful.  What the hell is he quibbling over fourteen minutes for.}  “I apologize for making you wait”

“Well, so what took you so long”

                  {really, still, just shut up and let’s do this thing} “traffic”

“somehow I don’t believe you.  You know you don’t have the most trusting of eyes.  And remember, you weren’t my choice.  You’re being here is all because of Marcus”

{bet he didn’t tell you why.  He thinks you’re a cad.  Your own brother hates you.  I want to feel sorry for you, but you make that impossible} “ and I can’t thank him enough, I really need this, so thank you for not fighting him over my being here, I appreciate that and I won’t let you down.”

“I don’t know what he told you about me.  I don’t really care.  But if we’re to work together I have to trust you.  And you’re off to a pathetic start.  (a few beats pass as he leaves the room)

{what in God’s name is he doing back there.  I should just go in there.  Slow down, slow down.  Let’s see where this goes.  I never should got caught up in this.  But I do need the money.  The house, the marriage, the kids.}  (yelling) “you need me to come back there.”

(door swings open. he returns) “you ready to gain my trust.”

                  {let’s just get on with this} “absolutely”

“ok. Then follow me” (leading me through the door)

{a kitchen, connected to a living room.  Where they heck’s he taking me.  This is bordering lunacy.  Could’ve been done and back home by now}  (we stop in the living room, where a chair in the center of the room is positioned.  A police officer, already worked over, is tied securely to it.) (phil pulls out a gun.  Wipes it down. Hands it to me)  {oh, what the….I didn’t sign up for this}

“ok. Show your worth. Prove you can be trusted.  Put this dog down”

{what. What. No. WTF.} “look, this is supposed to be simple.  We get in and out, crack the safe split it up and leave.  I never agreed to off someone.”

“he’s dead either way.  You’re choosing whether or not I leave here with one or two bodies behind. Your choice.”

{I think of Marie. Michael and Michelle.  I try to think back to when we first met.  I can’t get there.  I’m standing under a bridge. And the water is not water, it’s blood and the ferry men is stopped}  (I take the gun)  “this is BS, you know this.  I’m not a killer.  Completely uncalled for.”

“we don’t got all day. Get this show on the road.  I wanna get home and watch the voice, and I forgot to add the extra 15 minutes, and you know, it always goes over, DVR cutting it off right when it’s good”

(A jingling of keys is heard.  A door opens up.  Racing in, a young couple each carrying groceries and a little girl. There wasn’t any time to run and hide. They came in the room and faced us there.  Groceries hit the floor. Something broke.  Little girl screams.  Policeman is violently thrashing about in the chair.  Phil unloads four shots. First the policemen, then the kid and the father.  The mother was dropped mid scream.  I turn and unload two quick shots into Phil.  He gets a last shot off.  It hits me, and I fall)

                  {confused.  Like back in school. Lunchtime. Cruel, cruel kids.  Marie, michelle, Michael. Christmas eve. Opening presents.  Cold, like when you sit on your leg for too long, but worse. Trying to keep myself awake.  Crawling. Have to crawl…} "marie…sorry…"

                 

Over at D'verse, I'm hosting Poetics tonight and I thought it would be interesting to try and combine Acting and Poetry, using First Person Narrative as the vehicle.  Stop on by, read the article I posted, and give it a try.  I'd love to see what others are able to do with this idea. See you over there.

The Requiem and Potential Rebirth upon Preparation's Stage

Before action, comes reflection
upon each question yet to come

Flowing shades of random heights
distill the directions of this future's plight.

protesting or in affirmation, of the shape of space yet to foil


The buildup is the monster we must
slay, nerves, multiplying and thusly spawning

the angst of an evenings slumber lacking assembly,
where true sleep, can be snared by the nightmares net,

As caution's imbalanced by our demons flesh and frame,
for with anticipation, doubt and it's distress are certain to claim

the seeded revelations lost to our many tracts of unplowed soil


Rigid breaths quickly fill, spurring forth the weathered lung,
tepidly pacing each inhalant razed, as exhaled words expunge

rapid measures stirred within, beleaguering conditions born unto
accepted frames of clouded hue, dyeing calmness the colors needed to

foster growth within ourselves, for without, we cannot speak,
and tightly skewered life unglues, severing self upon fate's peak,

where crags punctuate the twisting paths of acmes coil


The quivering moves that make the bow,
unsteadying an aim that's hindered slow

The bass-less voice becomes the arrow, engrained
fears bite down, into a loveless marrow deeply strained

Sautéing respite blind and braised, tunneling cruel
the archer's sight, where a shivered imbalance sets to duel

An internal storm, preceded by its tolling gale,
thoughts breed altered, fingers twinge as pallor pales

the force one pursued, casting frost upon dominion's toil


The student waits in painful pause,
the teacher blames the lies crafted by applause

riddling the jester with glances, heckling forth gestures,
serving the accomplice alone, abetting stagnation and each its slurs,

Our hero swoons in abandonment, staring long unto frozen seas,
bearing witness to the deadliest of dreams


But onward he must, recapturing a light long since dark
Out of practice, out of sorts, yet still he must embark,

over this dirty forge, where each misstep further roils


First scanning through the banks of thought,
seeking that something that's since been lost

bursting forth, the epiphany swallows
allowing preparation a rebirth hallowed

With sword in hand, shield concealing the right
Shining in his armor, he basks aglow, treading toward this light

The words arrive, one and all, he listens, he knows, he now can tell
the truth, the way, to vanquish forever, this darkened spell


The message lines his thoughts.  The wisdom is his power.
Each distance grows close and near.  He is upon the final hour.


Stage's all set, the curtain sprawls, the cast is prepped and true
Our hero lives here internal, reliving all the choices he needs to

Slowly he alters shape, into a hero filled with ire and consumed by rage
and yet, he understands, that if fright should set upon the stage

all will be as well can be, for a society such as this
it's simply a case of dues unpaid, to transform the drama into a comedy

as we know, the world loves a train wreck just as loyally


Over at D'Verse, Mary offers us the notion of preparation for this week's Poetics.  Stop on over, read her excellent article and then stop on by each poet's site for their response.  Most likely you'll find yourself inspired and prepared, to compose a piece of your own.  Once you do, link it up and share it with all the other poets at D'verse.

Playing the Victim Again (Blank_Space)

Carnivorous wrath

Gyrations stutter

As clenched teeth hold,

         Cervical spasms left to right

         Thrashing the victim in (Blank_Space)

Vulgar beast

Culturally devoid

Of couth

To the brig

I sentence thee

To the plank

I’ll walk along…

I’d do

Anything, anything

To escape

This nightmarish ride

Anywhere, anytime

Please allow me this flight 

Mercurial Rising

Bluster of the simmer code// arranged-mister- perfuming harbor-harbormaster, vigor, vignette, vinaigrette, and VOICELESS aggregate

Pejoratively pejorative deprecatory//tersely trimmed: rations built by polyps scantily besperpled all about. Strewn the streets in voided locks

Bluster of fluff and the unsubstantiated cavalry of somersaulting tambourines.

His daughter was a merchant.  She wished to be an actress.  She dreamed in fairy tales- worlds furthest away from a chastising, cigar-wielding boss of a man.  His daughter, dressed to Sunday’s best, skipped the service talk, jogged around the holy block, dress flocking to the wind, upskirt sentimentality, pickets picked for curls.

To the boys in the corner shade, she searched until they no longer could evade.  She earned the sum.  She sold the goods and now a merkin she would own, to guard her pretty.  (All the result of a dumb magazine story, where “you ain’t getting nowhere in Hollywood until you got the goods, and if you got the goods-then you’d be best advised to guard them good.”  Well she thought, I’m a merchant as much as anyone else, I got the goods.  But to defend- well that she could not pretend.

Tautologies- again and again, over and over

The Diagrams of Venn are missing a few relationships- they can’t account for those unknown.

Oh no, the vang broke- snap, snappity, snap

The ambrosia was made especially for you

But there’s still dessert

Barely able to take another bite

Everything was so delicious

Like seltzer

She settles me

She makes the ordinary beautiful

Fork to plate-fork to mouth

I can’t stop watching her

My eyes can’t focus elsewhere

Eye to eye again

How does God choose his blessings?

Times like these I wonder

 Cheeks redden both

                                             Eyes meet steady long

Perfection meets me at the door