The Day - poetry/prose

The Day

7:40 AM (I awake into the crispness of morning)—

Fight to surface

out of deep dreams,

as hypnogogic illuminations

hold fast—

In panic,

oxygen depleted

darkness precedes

Apollo’s familiar steed—

And then—

Sensation returns,

bright cold—

—I’m back—



8:20 AM (While browsing the news, tiredness washes over me)—

Right on cue,

I welcome

sleep she bids me



9:20 AM (I wake up, for real, this time)—

—back, again—

yellower sun,

stillness broken.



10:50 AM (I am in my apartment, on the couch, curled up in a blanket, and bleary-eyed from watching anime. The shades are slanted partially closed)—

Soft daylight trickles in—

and saturates

parted slants,

of a lovely room

appointed with granite and steel

their near-absolute frigidity offset

by the eternal glowing warmth

of Cherry and Oak.

Yet they are, All of them

but temporary.

All aglow—

everything that is of this world—

stacked neatly atop a table:

Hostage to the Devil

How to Win Friends and Influence People

The Ten-Day MBA



12:13 PM (I listen to, “Another Nail for Your Coffin.” By Lamb of God. Sacrament. EPIC, 2006.)—

“I’m going to ride that horse

we’ve beaten to death

and deliver its stinking carcass

to your doorstep,

a gift from all the—

dead children—

that are the progeny

of your ballistic union.”



1:00 PM (I am in my apartment, seated at the kitchen table. I am gazing out of the wide window at the sunny view of the stream of cars driving past, remembering an article that I read)—

Metal colors flash by as I gaze languidly at the view outside of my window.

Taupe, black, beige, grey, white--crimson.

Over and over.

An endless race with neither start nor finish line.

Propelled by intense magnitude.

Far from remaining singular entities, they blur,

leaving trails and tracers as afterimages.

They are still there, even if I close my eyes—

Indelibly smeared, like a stain, across my field of vision.

Grumbling,

revving like violent heated beasts.

Devouring tar and rubble,

ever in a state of combustion.

They expel greasy rainbows of semi-transparent chemicals

that scintillate in midair

before becoming enmeshed with it.

We inhale it as a matter of course—

the heavy iron particles

cripple and atrophy our neurocircuitry.

Thus, we dissolve

into unending motion,

fading into smog

as memories tie their own nooses and hang themselves.

At the death rattle,

we ignite.

Alive with fire,

acutely registering pain

as the final recollection breathes its last.



2:30 PM (Leaves)—

Succulent feathers

waltzing in the breeze and light

ephemeral wings.



3­­:00 PM (I am at the table, the sun is high in the sky and the sky is blue. I am surrounded by paper and working on homework. I look out the window, again, and notice the chair and bench that I have outside on my balcony)—

Black wrought-iron is conjoined with wood,

growing hot together in the Sun

that beats down,

past the overhang.

Shielded from the light,

a copper bench and chair.

The beams filter through

Mission metal backs.

Ending up on wooden floor,

these squares of gold—

warm to the touch.

Each like an angled highway

of dust motes lazily refracting—

traversing—

—immaterial strands of sunshine.



6:55 PM (Sunset)—

Brilliantly blazing

ruby hanging in midair

precipitously.



7:11 PM (Shadow)—

Suffocating lux

ushering in the Wild Hunt

feigns umbrage at dawn



9:11 PM (Stillness)—

Abraded by sound

cloaking our reality

in absentia.



11:11 PM (Synchronicity)—

A spirit presence

truly isn't auspicious

new age deception.



11:59 PM (Denouement)—

On the doomsday clock

mere seconds to midnight I

bring the hammer down.

a reply to: rukia

Nice one.

Wonderful!

Interesting!