Walletless Walter

15 09 2012

The man with the neon yellow utility vest walks hunchback down Patton Avenue. A walking stick tapping against the metal grates and birck bark leads him aimlessly. All he needs is stuffed in the thin plastic grocery bag. A stick, a bag, and feet. Eyes are not needed on this journey. Maybe the world’s injustice has blinded him or maybe he was spared from seeing dead sparrows and strangers’ frowns. The stick keeps time—tapping and ticking but never protecting.

Yesterday, under the bridge’s shadows his feet touched the other’s—actually crunched human bone before his mind realized reality. The whiff of whiskey and heavy decay told him to move his feet off and away. Again realizations are always slower than reality. Rancid breath and mocking laughter smacked his already scarred cheek as calloused hands stripped him of belt and being.

Later, crickets stopped chirping and walletless Walter walked on. Tapping and tapping—his heart was still beating. He smelled the river now—dead fish and sewage run off. He had a path. No more stumbles. His soul nor his stick could take much more. He thought the expectations of life lies like a landfill—a passive collection of rejections. Ahh. Such thoughts should remain in the heads of academics and poets—not one whose waist band is rolled up.

Tapping tapping. Silence. A precipice of decision. He grabs the moist hand introduces the world to him. Sirens scream light and sounds fill his sight. Fluorescents, lasers, and rays of white and red blind again but alas he has clean pants that fit and the water smells of fluoride and antiseptic. His stick is tapping elsewhere but tonight he will sleep in white sheets, white light, and white wonder. For tomorrow, he will choose to be blind again.

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Later

15 09 2012

Cracking. Chemical dust blows against the anguished alien. Time sleeps under the mantles’s blanket. Cold light laughs as little ones scurry under gray skeleton limbs. Chlorophyll is frozen like the consciousness of care. 2062 is done. The root trucks patrol the last water—a sewage pond. Tomorrow raven tentacles will sflide 2900 feet to the mantle. Up to the barren land, they will save the crustaceanoid’s with pure heat—the salve of salvation.





In the Attic

15 09 2012

Heavy footsteps—nails scrape against the ceiling. A cobweb falls. Skyscrapers, volcanoes, and semi trucks sound animated and possessed. Perhaps it’s Beshev’s imagination. Such monstrosities do not rest in his mother’s attic.

At nine, Beshev’s curiosity pulls the frayed rope down and too suddenly stairs tumble down from above. The dark rectangle beckons Beshev—it’ like a portal to another universe. Soon at the top step, Beshev’s sandy hair pops up into the surface of the dusty darkness.

Three sneezes and he is now a being of the attic. Bumping into splintered crates and bulging boxes his small pale hand reaches out without fear until it meets cool moist skin. Beshev does not know normal and so his breathing does not pause. His bony right index finger poke at the foreign skin while his left hand steadies itself on a callous triangular protrusion. Shapes, textures, temperature, and size are noted. Beshev whispers in awe “ the triamphorasclyde.” Yes, the form in front of him is the ancient dino horse with three hollow horns.

Beshev now started to fear his ability to orient himself. Just yesterday his grandmother winked at him after reading an ancient Jewish fairy tale on amphoric creatures. Why did Oma Thelma wink, Beshev wondered. Did she meet these creatures herself or was she just taunting him knowing he wanted a creative friend. Well, this triamphorasclyde is here and I am here.

The boy’s eyes followed the outline of the form under his small pale hand until they met ice blue circles. Tiny frozen puddles-glacier like. The arctic circles darted back and forth attempting to understand this new being—the boy. Beshev felt the triamphorasclyde’s questions, wondered and waited.





Communication or Masturbation?

2 09 2012

Worlds layers of perspective ad experience scorch or caress the tongue. A canyon of possible linguistic combinations lie in anticipation. What is it that mixes sounds ands feelings into stories? And who are we to filter the flow or to force a river of communication? Can Communication nap like a cat? Resting so that we can be.  And maybe when Communication awakes, it will not strive to be beautiful or reasonable—just a fitful explosion of experience may cascade over our bodies—a tremble, a tingle, a seizure of the soul of pure expression and being. A volcano of “voom”—an inexplicable incredibly excitable energy of living.

In sleep, may deceitful communication dance and flaunt its hollow manipulative words so the awakened body will believe that communication is a nightmare—locked away in the darkness. Morning w[o/a]ndering feet prove we are refracted light in motion meandering through material. To touch (and feel) is the finality of the corporal experience. Paper and pen are murderous tools of experience’s purity. Pointing, dotting, carrying ink and symbols across a space to share something, which can never be experienced by another. Yes, ink and language are treason to personal moments.  I’m frustrated. We (all those who breath) cannot all access language.  Stutter, stutter, stutter—the slut of sound. This is literary masturbation. Yet, I must write.





To Be Without Words

2 09 2012

Yawn. Crunch. Block the noise. Remember scenes of nonverbal experience—pure being.
Straight thick coffee brown hair falls against her small shoulders louder than any word she might speak. Her wide bright blue eyes seem to never blink—perhaps it’s in fear or maybe wonder.  Savannah speaks of silence and screams. Her mouth opens ad touches the grungy volleyball. Her mouth asks questions through touch. The mouth is not an orifice for logical orations. Her lips are her fingers—a third hand. Darting back and forth as if powered by a defunct remote control, Savannah skirts the flying balls. Maybe she’s magnetic—it’s a miracle the other student’s balls don’t’ hit her. She runs around the gym in orbit. One day she’ll become a shooting star and fall away into our world.





A Stilled Drop

2 09 2012

I feel stuck like a pebble in a pothole. Let it rain so that the pothole will become a puddle.  Maybe an suv tire will roll right in and splash me out onto the road. And if the rain continues maybe I’ll go somewhere.  But what if the sun comes out?





Morning Observations

2 09 2012

The sounds of spider legs tapping against the dusty glass startle Josie. June’s early morning fog. A milky sheet falling off the moist and sleepy bed of earth. The squeal of the yellow school bus brakes interrupts the beauty of morning.  Soon exhaust awakens the slumber of the chipmunks. And the day’s chase commences. Josie’s whisker shadows chase the darkened silhouette of the chipmunk. The sun has just risen and a frail blue robin egg shell lands softly behind Josie—unnoticed. Josie rests uninterested. The chipmunk is too hairy—especially for breakfast. Footsteps inside the cabin gently tread on cool bamboo but one creak of wood and a flick of the small light switch sends Josie to the cat door. She knocks and knocks. The white plastic frame of the small cat door barley hangs on two screws. Josie is smart and uses it as her knocker. Impatiently she sounds as if she may crash right through. Perhaps she fears old spinster ally cat who growls behind.