Right as rain – This table can withstand even the heaviest of weights. Three ton barbells being held by a sumo wrestler who just ate his weight in sushi. If you shake it, it will not budge; Push it, it will not move. Pull it, and you will pull your fingers from their joints and it will leave you writhing on the floor sucking and kissing the now black and blue flesh. Callouses protect like noble knights, noble warriors in steel armor, grasping to their spears, sitting atop white horses, urging their sides to move forward at once, post-haste! There is a level inside, that I wake every morning and hope it evens out. It’s why sometimes I feel off balance. What warped wood warrants this feeling within my soul? I’m thinking of ships in bottle broken free, early sailboats on the high seas, perhaps with mast half-eaten and sail non-existent or eroded in tatters. Here I am now, holding fast and holding still. Digging in my heels. No wind or tornado can blow me down. Stiff upper lip in the face of madness, sadness, tears, adversity. I stand like the statue of the little girl on Wall Street.
Drawing a golden shape Oval because I’m playing The Sims as God, the narrator, unnamed character, the woman in the Hitchcock film with no name, no face. Clever clementine branding, Charlie Christmas nuisance. Thin rinds hit the ground soundlessly like the flight of tissue paper doves. Very low in the mix can you hear the peel and soft landing onto the warped wood of the backyard deck. It smells like allergies, New Jersey pollen where church membership dwindles as politicians get rich. Slow moving Dementor’s Kiss, smooching everywhere under fake Invisibility Cloaks. Smiling angel, sonnets cast toward the wind, upwards: “Take me, O Gracious One”. Flaming hoops into which we jump into because we are told, and also because maybe there is no choice. Head or feet first makes no difference. This here is the Circus birth canal. Through the flaming hoop, past the Lion’s mouth. It’s breath is awful. Calliope music winds up and plays until I find myself on the other side of that hoop, and on the purple pedestal where trumpets sound and cymbals lightly crash. The crowd roars and then I cry out in surprise and discomfort. And suddenly the whole vision goes tunnel, and I am falling backwards.
Trees that never blossom and grow fruit. Cactus in the desert, thorny stabs at first approach. Ah, yes but their bulbs are filled with water or aloe vera, or some hydrating, nourish sustenance. Sandy hourglass trickles through Time. Some Arabian Nights early-Hollywood fantasy. Where white men still get all the roles. To succumb and adapt and still not get it. Hopeless, desperate, dejected, depressed. Everything you do is for nothing, for naught, forgotten, forgot. I plead with hands outstretched, a perfect dove shadow-puppet, flapping fake-winds and not getting anywhere. The air is different here. It is the grand illusion where I have no wings and nowhere to land. This is not West Caldwell Airport. JFK Jr will not come back to life. Smile immortalized on newspaper headlines and documentary archival footage. Wading through memories that are not mine. It feels strange to slip on another stranger’s skin and walk through. And even then how could I possibly understand? I would never presume to. Human compassion can get you close, but cannot duplicate the experience of what it is like to be someone else exactly, someone else untouchable. These pears are infertile and will not blossom. They didn’t feel like it today. Not in the mood. Unconvincable, unpersuadable. Seeds were planted and the soil sucked. The soil sucked them dry. They got eaten by animals. They got forgotten and buried and did not activate.
Sly & The Family Stone bumping bass lines until early dawn, when the sun comes up and there are bottles and plastic red Solo cups littered around the yard, floating in the pool. Someone passed out on a floatie with their mouth open, wearing a light blue speedo. Oblivious and unconscious. Sunrise creeps in, first giving way to lighter blues and purples, before cresting orange and mysterious golden yellow, as that big side of butter next to pancakes, waffles, or french toast, makes itself known by hot, bright rays rousing even the most reluctant, sticking the knife in a hangover. Three cup trick where you have to find the golden nugget. Yukon Trail and levels ranging from Easy, Medium, and Hard. Cups get shuffled face down at a rapid pace. A game that’s existed for centuries, I’d imagine. A kind of ‘try-your-luck” type deal. A fox slinks away into a forest, bushy red tail following. Luxurious, but dangerous. Cute little black paws. The fox and the hound. Disney tears. Friendships torn apart. Makes us want to believe in fiction.
Cost-effective stock market price charts, red and green like Christmas Italian flags. Dopamine exile, Frankenstein silhouettes. Baby lace trophy, booties to boot. Escape artist drags eloquence through the mud and dirt, old 1935 squad car, living off potatoes poorly. Simple syrup, cabbage patch, seeds to grow into fantastical shapes, but this ain’t no Jack and the Beanstalk. Riches buried in the desert, breaking bad gluttony, greed. Menace, like blood dripping from the teeth of some villain, vampire, regret, rejecting it. Anesthetized time, stands still and becomes forgetful of all linear rules. Open, bright expanse. Heart beats. Sisko waits. Acid trip timeline bending to wills of gods and fates. This yin and yang balance and what lies beyond. I have lost my way. The thread has slipped between my fingers and I am no Perseus or Theseus. I have despaired in the labyrinth. Latching on like leeches to anyone who comes close, getting clingy and attached for fear this moment will change, for fear I will never see them again. Can’t make the choice. Scales in flux forever. Rules of gravity ever-changing.