The Deluge

The shutter sounds.
Just another exposure
Amidst a sea of pictures.
You taste the briny water,
Catch a wave,
Topple onshore as the swell,
Crashes.

I like your wings, she had once told me, decayed and withered away. Standing here on tainted soil--it’s okay. I’m acquitted to this ramshackle life, the everyday imperfections. The heart palpitations in the evenings and shortness of breath. The condemned, it drives me forward. I am breathing that same O2 mixture entrapped within every pair of lungs connected to a beating, steady heart. Its air, respired and unfiltered through steady unyielding breaths. Those plastic breathing tubes—they choke and stifle you in the end. Their hospital Johnnies are drafty—failing to endow your purpled heart, Lavender varicose veins. A calloused, brooding soul. Show me the real sky, Jeff Cole. It’s not through infirmary windows or screened between the fragile glass panes and mesh.

November 30th, Christmas lights, already?

I can see the frosted icicles from my window, the cluster of wired white lights dangling from the banister. The soft patter of rain melds with the ticking of a clock, lamplight-droplets echo from the clouded night and fade into the soft black velvet, puddle-collections forming in the gutters. The winds blow and I can feel their undying caress chill my bones, rippling back and forth across my spine. Yet I am warm, sheltered by the streetlight kerosene-radiance, refracting off of power lines. I watch as the analog clock turns sharply from 11:59 to 12:00 midnight, just as I had noticed 49 minutes earlier…

The incandescence fades from my sanguine walls yet my eyes do not meet the darkness. Ink, it falls from my pen onto a college ruled notebook, carving its black letters onto the page, splashed with the spattering of rain drop reflections. Beauty, the symmetry of accidental inscriptions and enamored pen leaks. I hear the vibrations of never-ending communication and wonder who might be calling at this ungodly hour--12:06 flashes on the mark.

The soft grey sky and darkened floral patterns lull me into a comatose state. I wander… Cross-sectional yellow-oranges keep me at bay, guiding me, guiding, guiding... Where? Home. Drooping, the world is slightly skewed, glazed over; sleep beckons the brain to adjourn consciousness.

Oh, I’m falling. Slowly, faster now, drifting into the smooth contours of your—my pillow, echoing off to join the realm of the subconscious.

Phosphorus, phosphorus, phosphorus…

Keine Verjährungen, die Ebbe setzt ein, Ich schwimme—andauernd, andauernd, andauernd. Wieder auftauchend Erinnerungen, nie Wieder. Ich werde das nicht ertragen. Ich bin frei fließend, mein herz ist ungeschützt. Ich fühle das Heil, ins dieser Platz. Nehmen auf einer Teil und bleiben. “Ich bleib hier.” Dieser Platz angehören. Ich wohne hier am einer Laune. Zufrieden und niemals--keine Rückgabe. Geben meiner Herzschlag, zurück an den Hauptteil, zum mich bitte.

Home.
The door closes on
A headphoned man. He looks up
Through thick-framed glasses,
Evaporates into the
Luminous shadows. I stare

Out of fogged windows.
Familliar City Skyline,
Wheels churning, churning
Underfoot. Humidity
Grips the yellow raincoat man,

Sweat trickling down the
Brim of his nose. He scratches
Answers to a crossword.
The brakes lurch gently, feeling,
Feverish.
Tuned into Iron and Wine.

Umbrellas litter
The aisle, condensed muggy
Air perspires from
The windows. Awkward glances
For now—just for now. There is

No coming home tonight.
The impassioned horizon
Focuses within
My opaque retinas, halos
Crown streetlights, sirens drowned out

By Camillo. It’s
Lukewarm, holding the mast for
Support, my stream of
Consciousness gently failing.
Leather and coffee sitting

Parallel to me,
Plugged into a nameless album.
Briefcased lawyer to
His left. Their sporadic glance
Never meets. Lurch again. Stop.

The floodgates open,
Light pours in, the bell tolls, it
Is just as soon gone.
Eternal darkness passing
By the windows. Rails grinding

On the abused steel.
Intercom, “doors open on
The left.” Stop, walk. Stop.
Wait.
A Soulpatch-ed man stands on the
Yellow median and stares

Down the tunnel line.
Lake Michigan. I jump in.
The wind is blowing,
Steady, faster. A Tin box arrives,
Stampede emerges from its
Ribcage.

Cross the border. The
Boston Metro boards, followed
By The Boston Globe.
And, the New Yorker, and the
Atlantic Monthly. I try

Steadying myself.
I smell a dull, faded scent.
Cigarette burns, and
The end of life as we know it.

Reticence

Sidelong glances through windowpanes. The glare of austere fluorescents
Against the glass. Blinding the enclosed, while you stand overlooking
An interrogation room. Concealed, converging but never
Intersecting with reality. You linger there, do you dare
To challenge the stands? Do you dare to approach the microphone, to
Bridge the gap, the gorge that isolates your sinuous web of thoughts?

Do you dare to speak your mind?
Or, Do you dare speak at all?

Silence

These creatures emerge from the woodwork when I’m at ease.
Within these cubicle walls, the same shift running nine to five.
The same endless tick of the second hand,
Circling at a steady, unyielding pace. Never, Ending.
Never, Ending.

I’m running counterclockwise, seeking the root of amnesia;
Blindly searching for that watch crown, the dial to take me back
To that moment; I want to live it.
Make sense out of this mass of jumbled words,
Make meaning out of something. Decompose these fences,
Shut down this confining life! The bars,
They hold me prisoner within my own language.