And now this… An alarm I can’t ignore I smother but remain alarmed It breaks back to before in a another foaming wave The break in our break away from breaking Washing back across shifting rocks to turbulent home I had started my own sea
Rattlesnake
The cell phone goes off like a rattlesnake at the foot of my bed. Torn from the supporting machinery of a complicated dream, I am certain that I am about to die. I scramble like pale egg white in a smoking pan. The lingering stench of sleep makes me dizzy. Usually, the diabolical fumes remain unnoticeable as they seep from your reasoning and cling to your clothes, at least until the mid-afternoon when they suddenly mature with a tang of disappointment and they make you feel violently sick. The mean words of a kind idea shimmer in my head. They’re too bright to bear, and they sting my mind’s eye, punching vision holes when I look right at them. But I know what they say. Wash this all away.
Senior Toothbrush
Small bathroom, tiled all in blue. Watercolour lit in diluted sun through dense cloud then dense glass. The mirror looks on. It’s the morning before the walk before work, resting in one of the last acts of a waning routine that fights me each day while I’m still at my most doughy and malleable. The last of the branches I must plummet through and smack against in sequence, as I fall from dreams down through responsibilities until finally, I buckle against the hard surface of my front door. This final branch is a twig with bright bristles that I ritually smush over and around my cave mouth’s entrance. To dull the colour, and the worry of a breath smell I can’t perceive myself. I press too hard in my insecurity and I chew the stick as I free my hands to tie shoes and zip jackets. I know I shouldn’t, but I struggle in the blur to catch myself.
The First Hours Of The New
The fresh sun hangs low, washing quietly across the avenue. A silent steady flow is carrying away the stillness of the cool morning, but leaving it pristine and untouched in the filtering shadows. Calmly casting warmth onto the side of your face as you turn across the softening driveway, but not yet entering your jacket. The chill on your ankles reminds you that you are alive. Your hand against the warm metal pane and your fingers searching for the icy cold keys. Maneuvering a goose-bumped wrist, pushing up a wide yawn from a glowing belly of coffee.
Quit Vision 