The Encore

The back conforms to the stiff mattress like a corpse in a coffin. Eyes don't move; can't move. Entranced by the galaxy projector's disco lights—hues of pink and blue dance across the heavens of this bedroom. The patterns are so ritualistic that I can hear the beat of tribal drums and chanting cavemen—naked by the shore—gazing in wonder at stars like these. 

My eyes fall shut, and a shaman tip toes across a balance beam between my ears. He whispers, "Avoid the shadows with sleep." In this cacophony of pagan bliss, I don't hear the screams from apartment 14; nor the bullets ricocheting off the windowsill. No, my eyes stay foggy while the lights have their encore to the rhythm of my bathroom faucet...tap, tap, tap.

choir of bullfrogs

symphony of insects

I am silent

A.M. Walks

Slippery sidewalks are spattered with morning mist. A beetle plummets into a sidewalk crevice—deep as a canyon. His legs tap dance for the sun like an off-Broadway street performer. A choir of birds sings a dirge for cracked eggs cooked by calico cats. Winds whisper the poetry of rotting flesh from last week's roadkill. Children dance ecstatically over carcasses of frogs, themselves only tadpoles last week.  

    rusty gate won't close,
    knees can't bend—ankles frozen

    everything is stuck

Siege & Passage

Summer strolls are difficult because everything is hot.  The sun beats down—burning flesh, bleaching hair, and drying throats.  Salty sweat invades your eyeballs like hoplites in phalanx formation.  You can't fight back.  Wiping only makes it worse.  

The other enemy is the ever present wasps.  They outnumber you, they don't like you, but as long as you keep your distance they barely notice your existence. 

Winter walks are difficult because everything is cold.  The sun beats down, yet it has succumbed to battle fatigue.  If you march fast enough you can still sweat, but it's nothing more than a nuisance.  The eyes are still a casualty.  The icy breath of winter dries them, a torment far worse than the whispers of summer.  Neither season is at peace with the eyes.  

Winter would appear to be an ally against the wasps.  Prepare for betrayal dear friend.  Though they dwindle in numbers—they remain hungry.  Very hungry.  Winter merely gossips and arouses their wrath.  Finally, after all this time they attack.  Fly at you.  Land on you.  They would devour you if they had the strength, but they are merely corpses.     

two frozen wings 

a payment to Charon 

for safe passage