Rough edges hewn,
subtle moments undefined,
obscured by clouds –
broken plumes
stuttered interruptions
of a tattered parachute
panicking;
anchored to a lost cause,
that screams its confessions to the wind.
Like rain,
wanting never to fall.
If thunder could only speak through a trumpet,
that is the sound.
It is everywhere,
abruptly,
then slowly not- a passing flood.
A confidence of noise that terrifies the insides,
sends them scattering in all directions,
but bound to you.
the fruitless effort makes them-
resentful.
Desperately,
I wish I could capture that sound;
pin it to this page
and share it with you,
if only to prove to myself its existence.
When it rises again,
I am still broken.
A school bus made of rubber
out of control
too fast to stop
forcing itself through too small a gap;
the agony of that sound.
All life inside me fades as it does
replaced by uneasy stillness.
I can see no reason for it but-
something is wrong.
The scurrying of my insides
incites the space I find myself in to salivation.
It could be-
the way it feels,
the stillness;
I am already within the monster’s mouth.
There are no signs for or against this
just the absurd quiet between;
a caesura in the fear.
The hills outside could be rolling off
into a horizon unseen,
or the listless valleys of an ancient tongue overgrown;
the eater of worlds.
I feel it deeper now, its third report.
Like I should know its purpose
and it is violently disappointed.
The birth of a maladie underdeveloped.
Only trachea and lungs and noise,
no head or mouth to shape the air;
fumbling out this inelegant discord.
That’s the sound.
I imagine the world is silent,
lest whatever ill fate it portents take it too.
Let me be a magicians hat,
where a white gloved hand enters
but never comes back;
the rabbit inside, dressed
skinned and limp to the touch,
revealed in shades of violence
that would cause a rose to blush.
The future I am, destroying him completely;
dismantling rationality,
sending that bloodied hand back in –
desperately.
Grasping at anything;
a string of flags in procession endlessly,
uncomfortably damp,
or a bundle of flowers
covered in what should have been rabbit.
No matter what he pulls out
the audience can give only horror
while I, the hat, tossed aside;
the only magic inside unwelcome,
broken and exhausted
from years of giving more than expected.
The crowd will stand,
slowly at first –
but quickly growing to a tidal force,
crashing against the exits
while this magicians hat rocks back and forth
mouth agape, unaware of what goodness is.
Let me be a magicians hat
perform this last trick and find peace.
Grow Gray With Me 