Sunday #1

Okay, this isn't great.  Sorry!  Last minute and all.  Easter and stuff.  I'll get it together for the next go-around.

Not my bed


A cold basement, furniture
rearranged and the burden
of memories ingrained

in the old wood, a thing
of the past.  I slept
on a couch, the worn brown

leather and rickety, thin
metal frame familiar
from college days, morning

bleeding into afternoons
through fading eyes and
a mumbling haze, more

familiar than the bed
in my old room,
a bed I grew up

with, but never used,
mornings still distant
from the noon, waking

early and wondering
if my parents were
still there, in their

bed.  Somehow, now my bed.
The lights, compartments,
rich wood and mirrors.

Once a blackboard above
their sleeping heads
and I crept in to taste

the candy on its sill.
I wanted what they had hid
from me.  The candy was chalk,

and I, a young glutton.
Never eat something unknowns,
the only lesson of this bed.

No, this bed has no
memory of my own sleep,
and I, only memories

of being awake near
its towering presence.
I'll sleep on the couch again.

Testing, testing

Figured I'd stretch my legs a bit in preparation for a polished poetry post come Sunday.  Fresh off the top, just a little memory exercise--



Prospero's a Laughingstock


He's driving through the empty countryside
And we're sixteen again--

I'm swallowed up in Shakespeare and fantasy,
Dragged along in his wake,

Letting him take the wheel and steer us down,
Content to let him lead,

Unaware of the destruction fueled by open road,
Skirting along the edge with an open throttle--

Close call skids through patchy asphalt turns,
"Oh, depraved new--"

"Hey, Champ," (He calls me that, a condescending
Conviviality I happily swallow

As hapless sidekick, unaware of the tipped scales
He's always held down in his favor)

"You fuck her yet?  Or you still just playing
With your dick?"

And I laugh it off, even though I've never--
The engine strains in sixth gear,

Passing a bright green field, a single cow
Stationary, eating

And a white, frothy, flowing stream of shit coming
Out the other end,

"Garbage in, garbage out," I say.
He slams the shifter down,

The engine reaches a new, unfathomable pitch
And I'm pulled violently

To the side of the car as he slides
Through another turn.

"Let's get some pussy out on the lake this summer, Champ."
And I bought into his distorted reality,

Even though the next few years we sailed those waters
And returned to dock each time sunburned

And empty-handed.  But we're sixteen again,
And it's new to me--

His bravado, his shifting, the bloodlust burning
Gasoline and rubber,

His conquests and celebrated indiscretions
And my car rocks through another slide.

A Challenger Appears

A new challenge (why, oh why did I issue a challenge?):

Every Sunday (except for this Sunday) a post containing either one page of fiction or a semi-polished poem shall appear.  Is that it?  I guess.  Huzzah.

So, I guess this means I have to write and polish stuff.

Doctor

Day 14

Henry pushed himself up from the carpet.  The Sun had set.  The room looked cleaner in the dim light from the streets, the thick layer of dust that covered each piece of furniture, almost invisible.  He walked to the window and looked out over the cityscape.  The scene was foreign; Gone was the tiny city to which he had grown accustomed.  Now a dense metropolis spread to the horizon.

"Is this real?" Henry said.

"As real as the Ward," a voice replied.  Henry hadn't expected an answer.  He spun, searching for the voice.  A man sat on the couch, one that either hadn't been there when Henry rose, or had escaped his notice.  "Don't mind me," the man continued.  "It's you you should be worried about.  The Ward was a warm-up, stretching your legs.  You're not out of the woods yet."

"Who are you?"

The man smiled, rubbed his hands against his knees, sighed.  "So full of questions.  It doesn't really matter.  I'll just disappear in the end.  Consider me a starting-off point.  A welcome mat."

Henry looked at the man.  He wore a white shirt, buttoned to his neck and tucked into his black pants.  No jewelry, no adornments, simply dressed.  His face blurred, defying definition.  Trying to focus on him made Henry ill.

"Good luck, Henry," the man said as he got up.  He paused, brushing dust from his pants.  "Maybe you'll even need it."

"Thanks, I guess," Henry replied, trying not to look at the man's face.

He nodded, continued to the door of Henry's apartment and left without another word.

Break

Day 13

Henry gets a break today.

Floating Lights

Day 12

Whimsy on sticks, lit procession
of drumbeats, noise, commotion.
A city expressed, all favor

and faults, new traditions.
Middle of the cacophony,
Henry, looking in from the outside

while marching at the center.
Henry, a stone in the
stream.

Henry, the white noise.