Storm-Vein

The sap from the trees—everywhere this morning—the midnight storm did a number—Governor is calling for a state of emergency.

“…What about the vagrants? (Why in God’s good name, are those panhandlers positioning themselves at the forefront of my mind, infiltrating my most personal of personal thoughts)”

“got no idea’r dare, couldn’t care less neither, surprise you be askin’”

         “Yeah, me too”

Scattered everywhere—punctured tires from branches—prematurely broken from their mother’s veins.

“This debris’ all o’er the place, we ain’t doin’ shit today, lets see if we can’t make it to Downunder for a cupla cole ones—God, sure hope’s still dare—hope damage din’t make It that nort”

(in a daze, mesmerized by how a simple storm can alter both the familiar and one's ability to perceive abstractly), “yeah… 

...sure hope not”

Head on over to D'Verse, where Open Link Night is in full swing.

Incomplete Surrender

Sometimes odd reactions occur.

Most of the time I can tell the difference though,

Between the real and the brought upon.

However,

Occasionally

A blurring will occur

Transporting the flesh

To

Some mystically warped dream landscape

And despite the fantastical whimsies within,

The mind continues to play tricks upon

The warbling words playing soundtrack to the world

Once in a while the scenery is painted like nothing seen before.  Here, truth falls victim to perception.  The mind wants to feel and thusly feels.  The vividly sculpted canvasing created, spread naked, for the larger-than-life states of vibrancy deluged upon— the mixtures of grey clouds and colorful mountain ranges merge, forming some abstraction you need to touch. And touch you must.

One of the most common situations is composed, as a story would be by a competent fantasy illustrator.

The sword is firmly placed within my hands.  The blade gleams the heaven’s and the crested jewels upon the hilt glimmer when falsities near

Often we have sidekicks.  The mind typically steals these from real life of what was in view just the night before.  Tonight I am on a quest, searching for the persnickety populous; it’s cat-scratched fever, and hordes of grotesque curs—armadas of a drone that drowned to mewl. 

An unlikely cast of characters, each, accompanies me bearing individually meted responsibilities.  Tonight’s journey shows Salacious Crumb to be my man-at-arms.  He barely reaches the apex of my ankle, yet carries a full-sword the size of a mountain goat.  Babe follows closely behind, squealing the songs it knows and whines about the one’s it refuses to learn.  Yet it does it’s job fairly well, after-all, who wouldn’t get a kick out of singing pig, lost and looking for it’s way home, only to find a world without acreage to spare.  Yes, a very good jester indeed.  Then we have the Schmoos, a whole family of blobby beasts, they trail behind and hop about, making sure nobody sneaks up from behind. Finally, to round things out, there is my trusty steed, a dear, dear relative of Mr. Ed, who, to this day, when not out on adventure, shops himself a direct descendant, and thusly, fair or not, collects exorbitant stud fees, for all the 80’s steeplechase fanatics who always wished their nag would speak to them.

OH. PLEASE!!! JUST GET ON WITH THE THING.  worst seven-fifty ever spent...

“Where did that voice-over come from. and for that matter, how RUDE”

Too often than not, the stories fail to complete.

And, for some reason or another, something I can only pass off as a curse of modern medicine, they never continue on as we perhaps would like…

After the next pills take their place a newer cast bedazzles with their spell, and the cyclicality renews again.

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.

Strolling The Villages and The Shops, of Our Very Own Versions of Insanity

Sanction dropped before the fifth,

wholesome beasts silk ties and

violent fists, gently adjust the storm

of constriction, subtly strangulating

about the neck

and a few shark fins later, along

came a paisley parrot with a welsh

design, speaking slurred and lewd

vocabularies

Then to the painting that caught your eye,

Literally, some batty estrogen depraved one-time

Beauty queens, plucked it with a watermelon scoop,

And tossed it about as each took turns to stir their

Soup…I think it was lentil, but I can’t quite tell, for

My nose was plugged damn tight, probably a result

Of all the smog I breathe in day and night

But it seems the reflections were all but dirtied splotches

Dried to spider-webbed glass, and so they through my

Orb back to me, and along with a half-filled bottle of visine, they said go ahead, put it back…and somehow,

That’s exactly what I did

In continuing this stroll, the things I saw, kind of

Wish I forced those hags to keep hold my sight in their arms, cradling it till the break of dawn, then casting a party, with grog and spoils, where we’d all sit around and tell stories over soup, sticking around until the Moyle pulls the snippers from his kit, and said, “lets all play a game…”

 

And dominion falls for once and all, damning the air with it’s subtle unsettling sense of foul…and pilgrimages never will seem the same…

As from this point forward, I do, I must have to say, a day’s much longer when you stay awake, and the minutes drag when your in distress this great, but hey, whatcha know, there’s merit in leaving untold whispers by the broken homes of emancipated brats raised by themselves to live that way, anyhow, that’s a pearl I took to heart, minutes after this whole sojourn was impelled to start

Seconds before the brownstone could open it’s arms and wrap their familiar paws upon me there, a salve, a beacon of dissection stuttered down the concrete, he would’ve got to me, he probably should have, but lifting one’s leg at every tree, truly revises one’s definition of a dogged day,

But as my door was sealing shut, his voice was spurting through the sky, where words would mumble, jumble echo high, and I there heard him say, “ all we really need, is something warm to keep us safe, all we really need is a warm place to stay the night…” and then I swore I heard him crying…to which I’m always a sucker for…

So I opened up the door and offered him my couch, to which he spoke swift and fast, “thank you, thank you, thank you much…this’ll hurt me more than it’ll hurt you, this I’m most certain of…”