2am Tuesday Morning
Disused sudden days
The amber after glow of
street lights in morning
Disused sudden days
The amber after glow of
street lights in morning
I try to locate
the tracing paper bible verse
fingers move across.
Liver colored chairs
and stacks of old magazines
welcome weakened souls
Girls who read, never do succeed, in areas like love.
I decided I was done, so I hung..
And when I woke up I forgot what I’d done
So I walked around and said this is not the same
What I remembered, but with a different name.
Sweating from the heat, but my heart was so cold,
Couldn’t smile, couldn’t laugh, and no jokes were told.
Trapped in this limbo, created this prison.
and at that moment I wished I had kept on living.
Warm lights, so bright, squinting eyes, Setting up they slowly adjust. In front of me ink speckled on white Now is the language truest. Lines and lines, a story told, The mute paper will soon sing. Through conductor’s hand and players’ skill, The cavernous hall will ring. Silent, except fingers on steel, The metallic patter of practiced hands. Over and over, the written orders, Delighted in these divine commands. The oak body, one with mine, Looking down, a grained reflection. Hand and wand, breathe in, raise up A hair and alloy connection.
Warm lights, so bright, squinting eyes,
Setting up they slowly adjust.
In front of me ink speckled on white
Now is the language truest.
Lines and lines, a story told,
The mute paper will soon sing.
Through conductor’s hand and players’ skill,
The cavernous hall will ring.
Silent, except fingers on steel,
The metallic patter of practiced hands.
Over and over, the written orders,
Delighted in these divine commands.
The oak body, one with mine,
Looking down, a grained reflection.
Hand and wand, breathe in, raise up
A hair and alloy connection.
Cleaning Out the Basement
Who drew these? I asked,
holding a water stained sketchpad.
I did she replied.
She looked at it like an old friend.
I was in college,
I wanted to be an artist.
I found another calling she replied,
as she unearthed a framed crude crayon cat.
There was almost complete silence during the car ride there. Almost, except for three instances. First, when we were exiting the driveway she yelled at me for slamming the car door. She always yells at me for that and uses it as a segway into her lecture about respecting property. The second time, she cursed at another driver on the highway. I smiled at how unaware she was. It was her fault after all. She should have checked her mirrors before changing lanes. Then, as we passed the Cuban grocery, she asked me how I was doing. She hadn’t seen me in three weeks, I was away at school, and she only heard from me a few times by phone. I didn’t want to respond. She more than knew how I was. She then said she missed me. I shrugged it off. I didn’t care. Jaded, she proceeded to turn up the heat.
The thirty-minute drive seemed like three hours. When we finally parked I opened the passenger door. The car let out a heavy sigh, simultaneous with my own. Behind me was my mother, still sitting there, applying her makeup. She was so conceited, so lost in her little world. Without thinking twice I slammed the door. I gained pleasure from defying, or at least annoying, my mother. Even the tiniest disruption to her life induced a smirk on my otherwise sullen face. Startled, she quickly left her post to scold me once again. As she exited the car the November wind came to my defense, tugging her hair, lifting up her jacket, and unraveling her scarf. It’s efforts worked. Distracted, she ran to the foyer of the Hospital. I tried to catch up to her. I didn’t want to stay out there too long, my fingers were already starting to loose feeling.
My mother approached the front desk, manned by several frumpy secretaries in headsets. They all looked the same to me. They had a uniform of a misshapen body, frizzy hair, and deep-set crows feet. After a few minutes of waiting my mother was finally able to gain someone’s attention. The secretary ended her phone conversation, and scooted, in her worn desk chair, towards the front of the desk. “What can I do for you?” the woman droned. My mother, in her notoriously sweet tone, replied, “Could you please tell me where I can find the Psychology clinic?” I stood behind my mother, hoping no one behind the desk would notice me. “Third floor, south wing,” the woman responded as she scooted back. My mother turned around and took me in her arms. I twisted away and her eyes welled up with tears. Separated, but still together, we headed toward the hallway and up the stairs.
Your twin planets, each with their own dark sea,
the fishermen cast out and pulled in me."
To look in the mirror and not recognize the girl in in front of me is a new sensation. I can swear I know those eyes. Such familiar twin planets, with caps of ice surrounding their own dark sea, where fishermen cast their nets into another world and catch memories like sea bass.
Their neighbor is a lonely spinster, peeking out, in the middle of it all, a notable gossip to whom no one will listen. My mother describes her as my “little baby button nose.” She uses these callow adjectives when describing me, hoping words worked like ancient enchantments. Repeating those words as truth, to become truth. Sometimes words are just words.
A finger traces the slope of the nose, its curving launch, landing on the lips; smooth, full. It almost seems as if the bottom lip is too round and small, the upper lip, longer and thicker, squashing it into submission. Together they communicate like a great orator. They talk and touch with purpose and sincerity, or at least they try to appear that way.
There is another face in the mirror, even more foreign than the other. He looks into the girl’s eyes, presses his nose against hers, and their lips touch. The girl takes one last look at me, winking in mockery. She seems so familiar, but I can’t place her face.
I am strategically perched at my fourth floor window; high enough for an expansive view, high enough to remain unseen. Foot soldiers march past along the guided route; some heading in to battle, others just returning. From above they have no names or faces, just ghosts of those who walked before them. Then again, maybe I am the ghost. They cannot see me for I am above them. They cannot hear me, the window is stuck shut. But I wonder if I am in fact a spirit, then can they feel my presence? Can they sense an intelligent being watching over them? I’m almost figurative, they will never understand.
The sky turns white, and then softly fades to grey as the clouds slowly glide across the plane. Those below don’t notice this. They continue to walk, except for the occasional passerby stopping to chat with a friend. As the two exchange hellos, they also serve as a dam, which the stream of people chaotically flows around. However their encounter doesn’t last long, the two acquaintances soon wave goodbye and go separate ways, restoring calm to the river.
The stone path they walk turns a darker shade. Drops appear; as if out of thin air, and the ants start to scatter, unprepared and forsaken by their pseudo god. The drops grow bigger, fatter, becoming liquid bullets as they near the ground. Rain soaks into the crevices and divots in the sidewalk, as well as the clothes, bags, and hair of those below. Everyone looks the same, putting up their hoods, guarding their crowns with books. All cover the top of their heads, their only identifier to me, blocked from view.
The last few stragglers sprint towards shelter and my view becomes desolate; my entertainment gone. A patch of grass becomes brown with mud and mulch, while water fills the occasional footprint of the ones who dared to travel off the path. The blades are picked up with the wind, and so is the rain, gliding the plum drops into the glass pane. Crystal streaks cover the window, but I, from my perch, never feel a drop.
Wake up from sleep,
It’s forty past four,
Half drunk, half dreaming,
Go towards the door.
I could begin today now,
Perhaps I might.
For really what’s the difference,
In this morning night.