"Error is to truth as sleep is to waking. I have observed that one turns, as if refreshed, from error back to truth."
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
At my worst, i'm running circles in a claustrophobic cage, nipping at fingers that poke in. at best, i'm up at the crack of dawn greeting dog-walkers with a smile of heightened awareness.
It doesn't matter where my trail ends. someone else always picks up where it left off. because it was never mine to begin with. everything is borrowed. on that note, beware of the chaos below.
Whatever a prompt instructs a reader to do, there was already a clue. so sure of the consequences until a tour guide opens a trapdoor. no room for hands to flip through blue.
Folding cards and cutting slides, slacking off while a drum machine acts as if bona fide. reassurance despite selective listening. splitting hairs of half-chance. once and a while, a strand is plucked in reprimand, but devils may care to lose their hair. like that abandoned building everyone passes, the levels are worse for wear. Brazilian wax makes it a personal affair. talked down to the frozen lake, glistening as if this were the iced earth of the future.
Shivering in the light as it bends within the transparent walls, embedded are wings in mid-flight, Jurassic park holding still in plain sight. disappointed this song and dance ends before the fruit blossoms. by next millennia, time will barely recall what seemed fresh. the 90s pop of our alternative youth erased by clumsy zambonis on floors tattooed with pictures, mops sweep up ticket stubs, cops see to it they pile up nicely, top off every heap. who then has a soul to keep?
To the facade of art, the sound of music, what will become? we come to no accord. no questions either, like with black shirts when worn backwards, but there was always a clue when it started to choke. otherwise, the sweat does not forgive the wake-up call, waving doors shut in front and the rear. hours step over each other in circular arguments for the time of day.
Great people leave impressions on my rock, tattooed with fragments of their Wednesday wisdom and Friday fruit, their Sunday stupor, a Monday mood on Tuesday afternoon, hoping it pass soon as i invited them along for a ride. we tied the big hand to the little hand, and since then did not check the clock. tomorrow had to wait for today to end because yesterday wanted overtime.
Calmly brushing against the fire. not adding fuel, but unable to tame it either. walking the line amid the smoldering hue. above the strain. taking it in stride in spite of the sweat. politely asking for water to keep my mouth wet.
Of this still flame, no two are the same, standing for many moons that wax and wane. a warm finger reaches out from whence it came, towards pockets of air it begs to claim.
For each face that arrives to the show, there it splits into two, friend and foe, blending into the background of opposites, suddenly less clear which one is escorting the other in tow.
From the most unlikely corner of the boardwalk, the morning lull of taking out the trash was broken by a large dog calmly sitting up just yards away, facing my way as if waiting for me. its next move unknown, i returned a stare and welcomed any response from its blank look. well, here i am. let's go.
Upon hearing both in tandem, can one tell the different laughs apart? which is the evil laugh and which is the sincere laugh responding to the former? early morning mental exercises to start the day.
The chronically miserable and the blissful, ignoring what concrete joys await through the veil of their daydreams, redirecting pleasures to things that hinder the vision, live and die by the sword of pity and complaining when an obstacle finally confronts the caravan. it takes too little effort and too much energy to resent. the oft-missed approach is more reflective, a straight face knowing one was once in their place, overwhelmed and confused by one's own existential thoughts, lofty ideas of wanting to do more than the present though presently handling tasks less than tasteful. the self-denial of our true monkey nature, the contradictions of our politics, no less the wide range of behaviors put on display, paint a panorama that more often panics than persuades. if they decide to tackle the quality of their character, there begins the upward climb to living, where days will interchangeably favor your rise and demise, from everyone agreeing with you to no one acknowledging your existence to the more anecdotal high and lows in between. this paints a broad brush of what it takes to walk alone towards solidarity. a secluded island unto oneself with buried gems that unravel total closeness. ignore the popular view accepted as lore; write a story along the shore, owe it to oneself to pay the due.
Spinning in place with no direction and no way to tell what's causing it until the thunder rolls overhead, pinching the earth with bolts as it shakes foundations and breaks the spell.
The layers remind me of a brick wall that stops all progress. shake the bottle and little devils rise up or sink down. they give me the dead eye like i'm about to choke on my luck. the liquor's luster goes on to reflect a light that i never see coming.
The caboose cut loose, not long before it smacks the curb. on scrap paper, i scribble a blurb, it catches the wind, while i lay here, with no business hanging off the pier. The thunder shakes, rattles and rolls. it bangs, takes its toll, comes back around to answer the call, racing ahead of a gang of colts, lines drawn with a bolt. we skip a beat, reached an abrupt halt. dim faces etched with strain meet skies of beige. surrounded, besieged. having walked many paces, we take a seat, and listen.
Tempered springs, gushing steam so high that heaven sings, the pink dawn loses its skies to invading kings, the river current roars as ears ring, foundations pry open and leave roots dangling. The unfortunate fallen in spectator seats watch in woe the final few collect their wits, dodging debris, avoiding the chasm pits.
What's learned has been so deeply tucked away, accepted as self-evident truths, i forgot how to explain it to someone.
Kept turning my head to see my reflection because she looked nothing like me, until we spoke. visited her room every so often to find the door shut, until it hit me on the way out. what's seen and what's felt haven't negotiated a right turn so it remains in limbo in that middle lane. looking past the newly painted walls of the halls is more mystery than a class cancelled on a sunny day. chuckling like kids in the back of the theatre, running amok in a house of mirrors, locking eyes with a perfect stranger. while we're close enough to decipher eye color, i'm invited to someone else's looming danger. and i feel pin and needles w