Mid-Most Day

A hundred paper lamps were floating across the river as the sun was going down, scorching everything in moody orange. Jim touched the strips of sunset colors with his cheek, in shiny, shiny leather, and gazed at the magnetic plunges of serial suits and ties, boxer shorts, and bright shirts rolled up. The tender September moments fleeing into the mirroring glass of office buildings, and the chemise of the day was golden, with sneezes and smoke settling snugly into the sparkling air.  

Things look different in this effervescent glow, like the light itself highlights the cheekbones of the riverbank, darkens its eyelashes and dilates it’s pupils. Some unreasonably complimentary filter that softens thoughts and faces, and a low electric hum crossing wires and connecting the disconnected souls on alternate sides of the riverbank.  Floating frequencies and bridges where there were moats and dissolving moonless September nights in the glistening water.

With teeth like piano keys, children smiled, and faces came out of the horizon, as parents shuffled and bumped into each other to reach the riverfront. Jim had the unwavering faith of starting an adventure, seeking inspiration from the suburban parental, familial satisfaction, and the Christopher McCandless, exploration of the wild. He thought he had enough age on his head to have it all. And his compact home, he remembered, had seeping pipes and now it beckoned him to go bathe in waterfalls, and not showers; climb more mountains, and less beds. This dream in his mind collided with the clanging of the barefoot footsteps on the bridge. He stared wide-eyed, short dressed into the seams, where the blankness made him move slowly to complete a scene of revelry. Just roping him with the clutch of its happiness. Cartoons from newspaper stands flew in the animate the sky, and he propagated himself into the fields of long, brunette haired people. 

There’s a shared frequency here, and Jim tunes in to the atmosphere and turns the radio waves up until he can feel the air grow loud with the sound of his favourite song. It’s the kind of coincidence that feels like destiny and reverberates from somewhere within his chest until he cannot help but hear the beat of his own heart and the sound of his own hum.  It’s a realisation, and before he knows it, his vocal chords open to the tune of possibilities, happy birthdays and gratuities sung in some hidden place of adventure. He sees his name rolling in the credits, words tumbling everywhere ready for him to collect with his pen in the cinematic release surging through him as he dances in the sunrise of tomorrow.


This is my third time collaborating with the talented In Mind and Out. We sparked a sense of happiness and plugged it into the character I’ve focused on writing this month.

Cruel World

Looking back, it seemed surreal that he had lost everything in a state of mind. People always leave, they live like they’re leaving, and if he can’t do it, then they do it better. He stretched his arms into the secrets of eternity, and in the unreasonable, uncomfortable standstill confessed to himself what he had known all along – he was alone.

He was always alone. Forever.

Come nightfall, he pleaded, and drape him in hues of gloom, in the darkening sky, while the clouds twitched with mistakes. The jersey shirt he wore expanded as a royal umbrella for his shoes as he put his hands above his head, its white expanse wet with rain, and his chest cold, no dry eye either, it was just one drop of rain over another on his sighing skin. Radio waves grizzled in the air, and his hands dropped down and gripped the metal of the railing.

Could a wall ever be enough to lean on? And can bones dressed in flesh help you stand every day? A piece of paper to paint out the complications of desolation, and lonesome time? He was learning to survive being alone, he never had to practice. As if some illusion of a crowd, or some grinning people had kept him hidden from the truth. And as the night blared in the accents of a fading movie montage, his skin ran six feet to keep him covered, as hours burned onto him.

Trailer

Underneath the soaring sky, the Svengali above making sure that his baby earth remains, rumoured to kiss an apocalypse soon with its body writhing in polluted hotness. The Svengali hanging earth high on a rocky noose in his garden of intergalactic quackery. The hospital downward on the bones of earth, released Jim into an ironically brisk atmosphere.

He predicted the architecture of the day, in the end he wouldn’t lose something as good as himself. The thrill of chasing, and escaping, and falling had withered because he rippled too fast, the water probably waded and gave way for him to flow down bars, and clubs, to pavements and avenues; hospitals. Nothing seemed so loosely suicidal to him than to have fences closing in on him, blinding him with grass greener in a more calmer way than his eerie self-destructive greenery. What was so profoundly found as to keep him Collected. Untamed. A freak.

The thought of running after and beyond the end of this plateaued life, where his time had been poured out of a Corona bottle, and his soil was Marlboro ash which flowered deception and imperfection, was jumping in and out.

He captured his feet and dared them to trek the steps to a bus stop, and deliver himself to any mountainous region. The rocks opened and hailed him in, the breeze pushed him to carry the weight of his body forward and submit to the summit. Soon, night drew in closer, magnified by the stars, the darkness was fondled in the eternal distance, and the moon threw up light at the clichéd romanticism. As hours sailed by, he extracted a sheaf of prescription bills from his pockets, and unintelligibly etched with his nicotine stained fingers: I’m exploring a third dimension, a sturdier perspective to hold out all hills, and trees, and not be a one trick pony, no million dollar mountain, but a traveller of infinity.

Sleep in Circles

Fading in, he hadn’t known much about the ring that bound him to existence with a promise that now he hadn’t memory of following. Recalling, and Xeroxing his steps, he couldn’t trace his fall, seismic fears quaked his legs to a sprawl, he couldn’t find the energy to even crawl to the edge, and to beat the living out of death. But it was equinox onward and on. The fire fades, and his eyes polished the blackness of a viscid liquid dropping out of someone’s arm, collected in tubes that shaded rainbow-colored cups. Was it a hospital? Or was it some kind of freak-show? He couldn’t decide, so he swept himself off the street where he found himself lounging an hour later. Each moment was a thought, at every point in time. The next thought inched further toward him, as he reached for another place, and his thighs dwindled out of the rush, his barbaric arms were danglinh and touching glassed walls and crystallized window panes. He was perishing, his mind couldn’t surf thru the flood of his collusion. There came a fold in time, his shoulders tossed themselves down a flipping wall, and he landed on his blood drenched head onto a parking spot, where three strangers picked him up, and they retrieved him to the hospital bed, one of whom rich enough, to be kind and pay for his rest.

A dithering army of states corrupted his mind, made him stand up, and salute himself from behind, where there wasn’t much, but his ripped hospital gown. There wasn’t enough, to prompt him, or help him figure out the condition of his humanity, no gravity either, or balanced position, it was always a collapse and then another plummet. Soon, someone threw him to the next night with sedatives.

In the next morning, the lights were soothed by effervescent whiteness, and the emptiness between the bed and the ceiling was besotted by faded visions of journeys to Stockholm, parties by the beach, or midnights coached by the thunder of youth. His mouth opened to reveal pints of medication, and ultraviolet rivers started doing stunts in his hurting head, as he floated to bloated sleep.

A wrinkle in his awake quietness was his father, aged in warm light, warning the sign of decay in smiles, and clinging to their history with solidified salts and sublimated roses. They helloed each other, and the father received a call, to which he paid his attention, while the son bathed his upper lip with the splash of his spit-wet tongue, and he rose, arching his back to the bed and gawking the entirety of the walls decorated by silhouettes of outside based trees, and cars cruising down the coast. Patients were cursing the cranky doctors, and people were accumulating coffee in plastic cups. Out of the blue, he gazed at his father in a soft grin, while his father guzzled the orange juice placed on a tray by his bedside, and they talked about the sun, and their respective mornings.

Corona and a Mid-Life Crisis

He picked up his photo albums, bags of M&M, and clips to tie his extra hair with, in a burlap sack. The week hadn’t treated him well, and he had cultivated zero hopes, or expectations to groom or be groomed. His life seemed like an elaborate Broadway-play, where all the people had slipped into the night sky, and the colors had set into a dull spotlights onto him. But, you know, there wasn’t any music, and he didn’t have a lot of characters. But the silence was a heroic peace.

The season hadn’t done him so well either. There is always a bitter realization, or stranger recognition that implodes into pitch black once you try to reach for it, maybe assuage your feelings so it can all be a straight beam of light that splits into a seven-tone collage of everything. He was a hole sucking air inside, and transferring it into a shadowed sentence, that vibrated in mysterious ways. Time propagated right thru him.

The overcoat he draped over his shoulder, turned shy on his arms, and touched ground. Someone paid him a hello, he okayed the hello and walked into the alley, humming a robotic rust. As he crashed into another person, his mind descended from the stairwell of his thoughts, and the person, from Liechtenstein, questioned him about his walk here, his death, and birth, if he had one, also other things at the middle of his height. But what do you say to a man who’s lost his maturity, and he’s found no truth? And what does he say? He couldn’t search for an answer at the bottom of his shallow heart, so he said “Fuck off”. Thinking, biting his tongue, abiding by his ache, and walking off into a promised tomorrow.

Cloudy Beard of The Sky

He never strayed from the day, until it set in stone, then he varied between racing toward his fridge, drowsily searching for Bacardi, or soaring on a table-top, barbaric arms unrolled atop its wooden chest.

On days off, he wandered thru hallways, and rocked his mind to spill words, interrogated it, pushing it backward, staring it sharply with shades of cool. The mind was innocent, more innocent than his body, and hardly ever knew what to say. Fortunately for the mind, his body was sympathetic and bipolar, so it would break out an illusion from its prison-cell, and assist its escape toward the burning, orange sun. But then it would have to drag it downward, and cradle its head in his hands, and fasten it onto shadowed corners.

With disappointments clutched in depths that shared semblance to the Mariana Trench, he would rise from his chair, gawk at plans that he still had time to fulfill, shuffled thru books, and sparked cigarettes, then extinguished them in vigorous movements of burnish.

The newspaper speaks easy about reviews, and funnies, and actual news. No good movies projecting about, everything’s been said and done before. It’s almost an hour. He’s scared of heating in his blues, and he’s lost at winning problems a little too often. So, he sits somewhere in the vicinity of a park bench, and cracks a can of Green-apple juice, eyes gleaming with upset specks of it, and reads another page of a story, and he fades into wild blue.

Tell-Tale Opening

Today was meant to be okay, but off he went, abusing language, typing at a screen, tilling his head for words, tilting his fingernails to check if he had hidden any ideas under there. Why is he more a concept, and less a person, why is his time more of a chance, than a measurement of days spent star trails apart. He doesn’t know. Does somebody help him? Let’s see. But no. Nobody can ever help anybody.

A collusion silently slides into his head as he comes unstuck in dreams, and his untied shoelaces entangle within each other, almost in the same manner as the spaghetti and rawboned meat he married his mouth to, arranged for it to travel south for a sojourn in his stomach. Everything is fuel when you can slaughter your responsibility, but what can you do when your responsibilities are all that there is, inescapable, laughable, and ugly? And they don’t catwalk on ramps, and stare Adderall-eyed into blank hums of tabloid cameras, but instead hide behind a bouquet and read notes recorded straight from the diary of a romantic author.

So, he snapped, wrote twigs, rolled grass, and shaded toilet-paper with sheer lipstick, and concealed all of it with words like “bedlam”, and “tender”. Soon, it will be alive in the world, wailing thru people’s judgments and their indifference. He told people, and three out of forty of them listened beyond their capacities, that nothing comes out of searching for uniqueness, and to wither vastly and knot your programs and your steps in life to create dangerously your sense of happiness tingles somewhere, resonates elsewhere, within your being, because there’s not more than that. Everything that you do, is contained within you, contaminated by you, but sometimes it seeps beyond you and affects the streams of other life. Is that okay with you? Are you scared, or sorry, or fucking terrified?