The Last Page

There wasn't much written on the last page, but it said it all. Just a few sentences strung together like cathedral tapestries was all there seemed to be. You read how the flag fell, or to be precise, was thrown to the ground in apathy. And it was explained, how childhood, as is usually the case, did her head in. Some people go hunting with arrows and bows and sometimes they slay something worthy of their china. Well, the last page read like an epitaph. Cryptic words, scantily written, provided only the mere hint of an autobiography to be labored upon. Death was not even realized although the words solumnly reflected an autumn of life. In plain text, rather succinct language, there was a suggestion of surrender. Not like a prophecy, but more akin to exhaling one's breath in submission to the wind. In a matter of minutes, the carousel evaporated into the hurricane atmosphere. Smoke and effigies took up the space where a sensation used to dwell. And when it was over, you wanted to turn the page, but there was nothing left.

Black and White Blues

I’ve got the black and white blues because if it is not this way then it has to be that way. There is no middle ground. Not a hint of grey is allowed on the canvas, only the antithetical neutral colors. So with that, it is yes or no, off or on, day or night, burning or freezing, down or up. I am either submerged in the water or standing like a pillar on dry land. I have the black and white blues like a heart attack. I am either floating in some artificial heaven or falling down the stairs. This time, there is no purgatory. You are either with me or you are not. Do you think that this can carry on any other way? It's either summer or winter outside, birth or death inside. I would take caution, but have chosen danger instead. The only struggle is that I can't tell if I am awake or asleep...and when it's got to be either black or white, it's always the fucking pits.

Illusions at Sea

I am powerless. It’s a terrible feeling of helplessness as the walls, sterile white, are caving in. Drifting out at sea is as awful as the day itself. I cannot perform any magic tricks for you. The rabbit simply won't pop it's head out of this hat. You can see the strings that are holding me up in suspension. None of my attempts to perform for you were real. Rather, I watched from the other side of the mirror like some kind of ghostly chimera. Was my dedication merely an illusion? I took hold of the reigns and pulled and pulled until my arms fell off. But the water still crept through the cracks in a ceaseless flood. I mopped up the drainage and the tears for days on end. They could barely be absorbed by the artificial sponge that seemed to be attached to my mind. I cannot write any more valentines for they have all been returned. The flowers that I dug up from the garden withered in the passing of vacant time. And I still shake at nights while the wind howls its stomach inside out. In a subtle hush, it carries your voice from the modernity of your dwelling to the the ancient decay of mine. Sometimes I whisper back as if my words will reach you at your closed off distance. And then it is back to square one, the place where hope has been cremated by your sudden and successful disappearing act. Only this one is not a trick of the light and there is nothing at all that I can do.

In Search of Shelter

Slowly crawling out of the ditch. It’s been an eon since the sun stumbled out of the sky. It’s still open: the horizon, Pandora’s box, the wounds. One moment it’s balloons and the next, it’s razors. Yet there is a clearing out there beyond the feral stare of unwelcome. Shivering in the mourning haze, the dream has been uprooted. The details, however, become more lucid as the hot water slowly turns cold. A pale chill of unease is emitted from the empty furniture. Nobody inhabits this place anymore. The mansion at the top of the hill is sheltered by the enormous tree that stands proudly in front of it, but shelter, above the eternal pangs of wasting time, is the true denominator missing from the equation.

Bloodletting at Dawn

Morning arrives and the dawn hits you on the head like a thunderbolt. Your calloused heart feels like it is about to explode. Palpitations ebb and flow in spite of the unearthly pain that subsists. The generic feeling of helplessness refuses to lift itself from the cables in your chest. It feels as though an aneurysm is coming on slowly, one that cooks and cooks until that final gasp where the strings will eventually break. Then you are left out in the open wondering if this predicament is truly real. You look out the single pane windows into the backyard and see pieces of yourself scattered everywhere like last year’s sawdust. They are only ashes, you remind your conscience, but they deny any attempt to be blown away into the ether. And then you wonder, are you decent or are you a monster. It’s pretty difficult to tell these days. Does it take two people to sever a relationship? Certainly, it must. The searing sun breaks through the clouds as children’s voices siren their way through the glass. The distance is rather far, but it’s an engine in the eardrum, just like the distance between rabid animals. You think about honor and all the idealism that peers go on about. Loyalty is still there inside of the rat’s nest. Love is still brimming from inside of the rat’s cage. There’s a razor stuck in the back of your throat. You want to tear it away from where it taunts you on its perch. Some days you win. Others you get destroyed. Sometimes the past is far and sometimes the future is close. You’re not deaf or dead yet. At least you can still hear all of the laughter that is slowly killing you. You still have taste, a taste for wine and slow, morose music. But the pain is immense. It is some form of torture to face the implosion of severance. Hushed footsteps enter the house in unannounced interviews. More ragged clothes and keepsakes disappear from their locations. Is it an exorcism or apparition’s angry burglary? Music overwhelms the mind in gigantic rushes of energy and then it all goes still like a sudden eerie exit. The darkness creeps in again as if it never disappeared. And it’s larger than anything else. It’s a great wall that is utterly unscalable. There is ice in the turgid air and it takes the shape of your thimble life and snuffs out any remaining gratification. You want to smash what remains into a thousand fragments. The world and every word between us has been broken anyway. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to watch it all return to the earth?      

Breakdown Elegy

I give up. I am giving in. There is nothing left to decide. Nothing remains in the vaults to win. Questions revolve amidst my mind in volumes. I am wondering what travels through your brain when you lie awake at night and how you are able to function during these estranged days. Did you even shed one tear when you read those words? Did you ever consider the consequence of running away? The weakness revealed by this move is a bit staggering. Just one subsequent conversation could have left some skin on our backs, but you turned off like a defective television set. You couldn't deal with the harshness of it all and in an instant scaled the wall in retreat. I now lament that this tough girl display reveals such massive insecurity. And now there is only time that divides us. There is nothing left, but wide open time.

The Grand Canyon From Below

Perhaps the beginning was too much of a sign. I still remember walking down the avenue with bemused embarrassment on my face. Flowers was the establishment where it publicly began in a conversation that seemed to deny what was to come.  University kids were bustling down the street as I gazed over my shoulder to see who was looking.  Driving home in the rain, the fog that covered the windshield was insurmountable. You left me dazed and warm with my seatbelt undone at the wheel.  I watched your silhouette fade into the rain drenched sidewalk like an apparition before making the ride home alone.

A few months later, we were patching walls as regretful music emanated from the stereo. It was as if I knew already that our union was doomed to fail. The dust upon my face in the mirror revealed an unspoken sadness that was positively manifested at such an early stage. Our lungs were full of love, but were ultimately clouded by the fumes that ravaged our slow breathing. I guess the chemicals assisted in prolonging a a damaged companionship. We almost made it in the end, but my male shortcomings had already determined that friendship was not enough.

Then there was that late night in spring where we walked a million miles around the green lake and back. We ended up at a bar where some kind of brawl broke out. We struggled home and fought the fight of our lives over what, I forget. It seemed like the end had arrived. You were so intoxicated that your eyes did not look straight into mine. I clung to some kind of repair mechanism, the kind that I cannot cling to anymore. In the morning, it was over and recovery came in a wave of relief.

There were trips over the ocean and back. There were thoughtful gifts on and off of occasions. No matter what we said or how we tried to spoil each other, the signs were there from the beginning. You were ten years older. The spark in my eye could not be forced. You were clothed like a homeless vet despite your vocation. And although I tried as much as I could, I did not possess the necessary attraction to seal a full commitment. Although not officially married, we made an impressive run. That day when the sky fell down will never cease to fill me with regret even though the cracks were visible from the onset.

As we ponder this collapse from miles away, the result is the same. There is animosity, gut-wrenching pain and remorse. We both feel the grenade exploding in our stomachs.  Virtue has been eliminated. My love for you has been disqualified. In the back of my mind, I pondered marriage and dawn and eternity until the inevitable customer fell into my lap. All of my doubts and fears were sealed in that moment. The fatal flaw had just been proven to be too real to overcome. Attraction or lack thereof became a wall too steep to scale.

It is possible that the clearing will bring us both to a better place. The clock of youth has stopped ticking. The alarm of purity has come to a full stop. This great stock market crash has created a tower of uncertainty. Although your voice is still here in my heart and your love will continue to travel through my blood, I now know that there is no space for us to return to. What remains is damage, a battlefield where the wounded and maimed lie without crutches. It may be for the best, but this excruciating sickness is all that I can now feel.

Between Mirages

Days are chasing free falling days by the tail as restive evenings are spent in solitude. It’s time to move on for too many tears have been plunged into these pages for the time being. A world of unrest has twisted itself upon us like a serpent on a mouse. The necessary epigrams to move you never came together. Every kind of gesture just fell by the wayside. There’s still blood on the walls and too much fury to overcome. A chimney of disgust continues to flow both up the chute and down into the lodge. There’s nothing left to say, nothing left to rehearse, nothing left to cast into the vast ocean of reticence. The lighthouse at the shore has a signal that cannot be seen from this vantage point. On the battlefield, our armies have been slain by the cold, disjointed aftermath of war. Resentment is a high priority. Spleen, above all else, has reigned as the motivating factor. Caustic showers of distrust are hailing down from miles around this hazy location. It seems that this is a dustup with no victory to obtain. This rifle has been buried in the backyard. Rusted bayonets and disused shells have been proven to have no purpose after all. With both arms down, resigned submission to fate has at last occurred. The sentry that appeared to be standing guard by the gate was a mirage. Maybe we’ll meet again somewhere after the flooding subsides or maybe we will just continue to drift downstream like bottomed out soup cans. Either way, the insurance plan has lapsed. There never quite seemed to be one anyway.