Things Imaginary, #188

Arm across the tightly
shut eyelids or what I
hope is an arm. What could
indeed be the flesh of
most any animal,
any real or dead
thing, the ancient calling
of something beyond my
comprehension, beyond
my control. The bodies
piled up around me.

The path to the sunlight,
a swervy turned and curved
country road, looking up
to the sky, reaching back
to peel open my
firmly shut eyes, towel
free the gunk and the gack
that has blinded them. I
have been awake for years,
for centuries, but too,
asleep now for eons,
unresponsive to the
blind terror brung upon
the world and this body
and the ones around me.

The air is thick, stale.
It suggests that someone
has fired a gunshot,
powder has been lit, but
before that, the rile
of steel through flesh. Still,
I make out nothing.

Laid back, prone in bed,
in a dark dream where all
I love is slowly took
from me for zealousness,
and while I persist in
my innocence, from the
point of view of the me
in the story, what I
am doing is good, right
and works. No mistakes in
this garden, whatever
road is walked is the road
to the gates, whatever
key one is carrying
opens the gates and which
ever sidewalk chosen
leads to the front door. I
don’t know the password. I
don’t know one password. I
am unable even
to fake something useful
or ridiculous. It
makes perfect sense to me.

But every attempt I
try to explain, to tell
the very reasonable
people in path of my
very reasonable plans
they come out with the voice
of a madman. So I
try to wake. Alas, all
the very reasonable
people explain that I
am not asleep so why
am I trying to wake.

Though the cinemascape
changes faster than I
can keep it from changing
and more rapid than I
can make it stay the same,
the world is a slur of
magic, impediments
of gravel colored skies
and oceans of oil.

Even the matte finish
of the forest shimmers
and the towns are loaded
with vast boxed houses. I
am lost in one of these
boxes, on the streets in
a city, in a church
and a street of concrete.
In a dorm wondering
what room the party’s in.

In the storeroom, chastised
for my blindness. In the
hall outside the dormroom
talking to the manager,
who is my roommate. In
class listening to a
lecture. In the warehouse
being lectured by my
professor who is now
the manager, bitching
to my manager-roommate
about the professor-
manager. Arm across
my tightly shut eyes, head
buried in the crux of my
elbow blocking out all
light. It is the darkness
that keeps me, that holds me
like a child, darkness
where I can feel the
worst of myself breathing
and my arm rising and
falling. Where, gladly I

welcome this world into
my world, where the nexus
between God and body
and creativity
come to fruition. I

am painting. The song is
not the song. It has no
notes, it is only the
voices of the wonder
and the fear. How simply
we forget. We abuse
and chastise our parents,
laugh and make fun of our
children for their silly
creativity, their
imagination, their
third eye open wide to
the sky and allowing
the great flowing of this
reality in. Arms
across my eyes, buried
in the pit of my
elbow, blocking out the
prejudice and the sad
irony. Forgo your
purchases, arguments.

Forgo your arms sales
and your secret deals.

Nothing more can come of
this. Were it left up to the
sorcerers of the cold
irony or to the
old human condition
we would be enticed to
admit a love for all
things imaginary.

Why do you waste your life
drawing, fiddling on
the guitar or wasting
away in front of the
TV? My third eye is
closing, and whatever
it once saw, no longer
can be seen. I am prone
on this bed, enemy
of this concrete fortress,
the cold barren storerooms
of this factory. I

am asleep, exhausted.
Bodies standing all
around me chortling
and wondering how I

could be so silly. Wake
to the dawn peeking through
the morning blinds, sneaking
up over my knees and
belly to pry into
the bottom edge of my
vision. A jolt awake
and the body, calling
out to blankets and to
a being sleeping next
to me, to my choices
of food and of living,
the places I went to
yesterday, that stuck
in my mind and triggered
the old icons to rise
up and take command, paint
on whatever landscape
hands itself over. I

am all water, jelly
legs and fingers on walls
while the knees do declare
themselves unwilling to
work, to be a new crutch,
to steady myself and
the my long blurry eyes.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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