posted on Jul, 6 2013 @ 08:15 PM
On a dusty square of solitude, the powdery thud dots the lone rhythmic bumps broken up by the soft coo of the baskets plush net startled by the
occasional spike of a rattling rim, rolling the rock off to punish you with a scrambling retrieval telling you you're here in this box because you
haven't earned your way out of it yet. My pistons pump and joints twist and retract, here alone on this plateau where it is always a dusk that never
darkens, only deepens, deepens like a funnel that has tricked you into believing it's a soup ladle. 5,000 more cuts and spins followed by a virgins
release might grant me the key to flee this court that sits somewhere between the 12th and 13th floors. Alone, you paint not with broad stark strokes,
but feathery layers that seem to go nowhere, obscured until the masterpiece is ready to hang on a white wall with a gold rimming. I am all alone,
somewhere between here and there, and my destination is just as desolate as this secret garden where the seeds of my desires must bust through the
chewy membrane and flourish, and bear the fruit that cradles the sweet coating to fill my basket, to journey back with to the village where I flick
off my shoes and look glassy eyed towards the future in a sunken sofa, as if I'm already reminiscing on some futures feast.
Alone. Just me and this lofted sphere with which I create rainbows. Rainbows that arc and fall right through to a kettle of gold that has been looted
by someone in the shadows. I can't leave this dusty square until I recover the mythical treasures that have been swindled from right beneath my
dripping nose, while it is only I that can attest to the loot and said removal from my bag of fortunes, fortunes I will use to bribe the gatekeeper
with to catch my train ride out of here, maybe to there. Maybe to just come back around and sit on the steps and suck down a bottle compassion with my
There is only I, this bouncing ball of true perfection, the only part that knows what it is and what it will always be, for it is immaculate in its
crisp backspin and soft splash, it's consistent reply and predictable placement. It is itself on this dusty square and that cold rigid circle erected
tall and straight like a palm tree planted in concrete, which is the portal to forever and eternity, pure in its sterility. But there is something
lying belly down in the edges, those black thoughts that take and hide my riches and leave me as desolate as this plateau, somewhere between the 12th
and 13th floor. The figures who you only see from out the corners of your eyes when your dizzy from spinning and tired from trying.
I am only playing myself. But there is someone else, I've seen him as a black mass that stands at the baseline judging my release, letting me know
he's going to snatch my treasures at the end of the rainbows I paint in the sky that remind me of the beauty in my follow through, only to betray me
with an empty kettle for me to boil my aching bones in. How good it feels to just simmer into a pot of stew, formless and comforting, nothing that no
one will ever remember but did just what it was supposed to do. I can't see them but I know they're there, like molecules of oxygen that keep me
afloat. Like the carbon dioxide I selfishly expel for the purpose of keeping my imperfect machine greased and running, dashing and slashing until my
resting place sleepily announces itself as my own burrow, unoccupied, cold dirt, alone.
I am not only I but the tail that follows my every feign, swift and balanced, sure but too late. The source of my certainty is also in the shadows,
too faint to make out on this dusty square where it is always dusk, and never dawn. The grain leaves me space to arrive at wherever I want, but not
with the solidness of a bronze statue or a plastic billboard. I tell myself I can reclaim that treasure at the end of the rainbows I paint in
practice, but they are always there to steal their loot. My feet stay sure, and my aim is an archer, as I dance around this dusty square alone to the
rhythms of somebody else's moon. When I burst through this chewy membrane and get to the inside, I will be greeted once again by these shapes, here
to shake me down for what I've got in my pockets because I've earned it here, here on this dusty square alone, where they hawked and swooped and
pierced holes in my arcs of shimmering hope.
Quiet and soft, and all alone, I know them only as the material that oozes, into something whose figure cannot be discerned into anything of
certainty. I know only that they shake me down every time I try to step off this square and hop out of this box, even though I have earned my right to
dance right out the dusk into dawn.