Trumpets resound in thick, brass tones announcing the entrance of royalty, a king. Crown of weighted gold - real - upon his head, the air from these horns lightly breezes the bristles of hair on his neck. He wears a sash encrusted with jewels and as the trumpets resound their last note, the chamber echoes with the energy of all who has come and died before this altar, this throne. Questioning properties forever forbidden from his hall as it actually does not make very good politics for this time period. The king's shoes are new and after crossing his legs, he remains stock-still, gazing at their beauty. A goblet is brought to him. And regards it carefully, looking into the eyes of the page who has brought it - deeply. Resigned, he accepts the chalice and smells the sweet wine within, takes a sip and calls the page back. "Take it away, I am finished with it". His queen has died not long ago. And he feels as empty has the hall is now; echoing, resounding, reverberant with nothing to reflect the noise of the soul off of. Eyes cast downward, nursing his spiritual hangover. What is a king to do, this messenger and representative of God, this god-like being himself, this pure bloodline inbred; What's a king to do when he no longer believes that God exists? How this invalidates his very purpose, his role -
Pretty good, pretty tasteless. Pink dress with pink rubber boots. Splashing in the rain. Galoshes splashes. Big puddles. Big Mess. Pretty ridiculous when you're not two-years-old. Pink polka-dot hair bow doubling as bow-tie. Bow-tie pasta dry, with no sauce or moisture. Batted eyelashes. Betty Boop. Stardust Gypsy Rose Lee. Heartbreaking musical. Later on mixed bag. Goody bag. With candy and little games that are Made In China. The sweet smell of plastic. Landscape. Nature's aura. Wild grasses grow near gullies where no one else is home. The town just vanished. The atheist believes that nothing is haunted. Roar of an airplane threatening the peace and serenity of some antiquated, European town. Stuck in the time loop, stuck in the time loop, stuck in the time loop., stuck. There is protective shield encasing their abodes. Everyday Groundhog Day since World War II. They are pumping water at the well, into buckets, and bringing it home. The twirl of a dress on a dance floor. Good, clean fun. Well-natured innocence. "Pretty". Some wide mouthed American compliment, with teeth wide.
Rocket launcher energy blasts off and explodes into a million little tiny pieces of confetti. There will be no space mission today. An energy that cannot be contained, that is worse than nuclear at the subatomic level, sometimes volatile, mostly unstable. Sporadic outbursts uncontrolled. The many poppings of birthday balloons so that the ground is now littered with a deflated rainbow. If the floor is lava I have already burned up and am talking to you from the afterlife. Hear me now, God-like, Oz-like through this megaphone throughout the school. You are dead, but you are needed in the Main Office. It’ll only take a minute. Time-ticking hands go around 360 degrees like the Exorcist. I’d imagine that’s what it feels like if you’re a clock. Some hell-raising neverending task. Lunette the Clown didn’t even know what she was talking about. Acid-trip of a children’s television show. Hospital white, crumpled gown. And I am scared of what’s to come. Trauma makes me rambunctious once I’m on the right trip. I cannot stop and refuse to calm down and my mind becomes excitable laser beams wanting to scan, understand, and destroy everything. Medicated parsnip, turnip, nip-slip. Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl and somehow Justin Timberlake is untainted by this still. Sexism in America? Ludicrous hazing? Slimey marshmallow tree stump, Egyptian captains log. Wicker basket ships.
Lilies lie limp at the foot of a gravestone. This touch of color has but faded all too quickly. Made inert by these winter sands of time, the flowers are shriveled and wrinkled, color fading, becoming covered by the blizzard God reigns from above. Amen. Let it be so. So that in this moment in time, wherever nature is peeking her head, we shall cover it with a brutal slap on the wrist letting her know it’s just not time yet. Old Man Winter hasn’t had his fill. It is peaceful in the graveyard, save for the Grim Reaper toward the edge of the property, blasting heavy metal and raising his scythe to the beat. In his Halloween Scream mask and wobbles his head back and forth, his black hood close to lifting off. An airplane engine interrupts the silence soaring beyond, yet so far away from touching heavens. This separation of body and soul. These people will never walk again, or open their eyes, or speak. They are dead forever. Like these lilies on the grave, they will decompose and become dust, so that when spring does come ’round, all evidence will be erased of their existence here. Feast for air and worms.
Vivid colors in broad paintbrush strokes give the painting away, half covered under a bed sheet and tarp in the corner of the dusty storage room. It is large and massive and tucked away behind a clutter of objects. The golden glint of its frame gives it away. Some long forgotten Still Life treasure they thought they’d never find. It has been held hostage in this haunted room this whole time. Touched by ghosts and rotting under the air of oxygen exposure. The paint has tuberculosis and the fruit depicted in it begins to rot and cough. Sliced open cantaloupe, cut right down the middle exposing orange flesh and seeds. It would do everyone well to have slice; This room is hot and humid and oppressive. Dusty attic in a wealthy home so there are windows facing the front lawn, but no one can see into them from the outside. Every step is a creak, every shift a cacophonous movement. Like a bad hangover with the gain turned all the way up that the sound is clipping to my eardrums. Vibrations course through my body. Jumanji-incarnate. Child’s worst nightmare. Terrifying versatility. The painting cannot escape and I am too small to carry it out. The house is set for demolition. I cannot stop it so we must quickly open this roof.