Category: Writing

Drop the moon through flannel blue skies and drift away on dream addled clouds. Words swim in purple amniotic seas. In this cracker box house on a saltine shore we replaced all the window shades with butterfly wings.  When the sun comes up, we’ll bow our heads and begin the day anew.

This daily fifty-two compels me. This daily fifty-two propels me. It stalls me, it calls me. It bores me, it chores me. Here, at the end of the day, I have little to say. I’m dull to the world. Day and night have unfurled. And I can’t capture any of it succinctly.

The morning mower chokes and stalls on thick grass wet from last night’s rain. He walks slowly and in small steps, the man behind the mower, pushing nudging, retreating, and restarting.  A different man doing Sunday things on this midweek holiday hammers a board into place. This sunny day is heating up.

Oblivion is a black hole. If I’m not careful, this day will flirt at its edges. The gravitational forces will start to suck the day in. I may have to grab it by the arm and pull with all my might. It’s early, but I can already feel my grip giving way.

Stagnant air and high humidity. A sluggish morning drips into a sluggish afternoon. Even the blood slows and thickens in the veins. There’s a viscosity to this summer day, swampy and green. Algae grows across the neurons, moss dampens the chambers of the heart. Rain falls in straight lines, washing nothing away.

Sometimes, the sun breaks through the clouds. It’s morning, again – thankfully. The neighbor rides his slow mower across his back yard. Just over the fence, I can see his blue hat drifting out of sight. He’s being carried away on this suburban current. The one that washes away the lazy Saturday hours.

The see-saw lilt of the Black-capped Chickadee echoes over rooftops and trees. An occasional breeze stirs hazy air. The morning is both still and busy. Closely, closely, closely I listen. Chits and chirps and cheeps. Nearby birds like the secretary pool typing away. The static ticker sound of breaking news from yesterday.

Tired and ready for bed but lyrically playful, I write to the tune of “Can’t Find My Way Home.” We walk through this haze. This crazy life maze. Somebody sings off key. I play. I play… revise rewind. I read the lyrics, find the time. But I can’t find my way home.

Twilight yawns and soon it’s evening. Once again, the air comes with a warning label. Being alive has become a health hazard. Life has always been fatal. From the sounds of it, nobody has told the birds about this. They chirp and sing merrily in the falling dusk. Treacherous air be damned.

If the birds sang, I forgot to notice. If the puddles reflected rainbow skies, I forgot to notice. If the June sun felt strong and direct and hot on my back, I forgot to notice. The day has passed. Most of the night, too. If it called my name, I forgot to…

This thunder doesn’t clap. It moves and rolls like heavy furniture. This rain doesn’t drive. It ribbons and lashes. The green-gray green sky swirls and trees dance a frantic dance, all jazz hand leaves and shimmy branches.  This storm rides in on syncopation: floor toms, kick drums, snare pops, and yes, claps.