This reality:
not the bright-eyed
shoot-em-up gallery
they promised,
not nearly as nice
as the dusty menagerie
foreseen.
Orange, plastic caps
land in the doorway
of cardboard market stalls.
Do that thing again.
You cry while I hold you,
like the little baby I am.
Don’t look now,
but
wow,
I’ve never fucked up
so completely.
Oh wait,
yes I have.
The sundial stuck,
an indecisive thing;
ticking perpetually
on the same, old second.
Let the world turn;
for once lick its own wounds.
Let the majestic sea turtle
hurtling between cosmic gases,
make its own peace
with the monkeys on its back.
The bench spoke to me.
I waited so long:
the daily walks,
the nervous glances,
- hoping.
I made excuses,
now thinking about it,
to walk by.
Deluding myself to believe.
No,
I do like walking.I do like that bench.Around and around
that gnarly,
blood-footed path.
And then
sat,
“please leave“ it requested.
An underwhelming introduction,
but
chills and flutters
still.
I walk on.
Foreword: I have wrestled with myself for about two months now as to whether or not I would share this story with you all. I wrote this as I pondered potential edits and revisions for my “Midnight Rose”, and when the story came fully to fruition I was, admittedly, somewhat displeased with the results. I may yet make another version of this story which I can find more entertaining, but given our current situation I wanted to release more content that I hope you find entertaining. In these awkward times we must find other ways of connecting.
That said, I appreciate your patience with me as I indulge myself in the perpetuation of this little fantasy. Though it may not set itself completely apart from the original inspiration, I hope you enjoy it all the same. The original poem came to me as I thought about rewriting an old assignment from school and from there this developed. After all, “The thorns of the past can become the buds of the future.”
Aimless through the black and white,
among the grainy tops of midnight.
Wander through clear cut lines
of staunch lit dreams and windless vines.
Crawl and stretch toward open whites,
blue or hazel of open eyes.
Crossing through emboldened text.
Reap and sow tears of crying minds.
Black and white,
back and forth;
whose hope is it to read the signs?
Among the fields stemming dreams of height,
while as to day, they fall to night.
Within words so far away
only disbelief will fill my fright.
Harvested here by those astray,
the tree of wisdom, from leaves that fell away.
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