Breezes Unhurled

Something made him mad.  I assume it was something hidden deep, he certainly didn't have any tells, that is, he never told us what it was directly, just lots of shouting.  Turns out we only caught the one-foot waves from the deeper Tsunami.  When his wife turned herself in for blowing his chest out she was blacker and bluer than one of those endangered Japanese monkeys, and she had half a pool stick stuck in the side of her thigh.

When Kevin's older brother asked her about it later he said "she smiled like my Vegas Aunt."

This memory wafts in over breakfast, hot oatmeal and hardboiled eggs.  I like my eggs sliced evenly.  Kevin is there, reading up on this inexhaustible spectacle of a president.  I want desperately to be out of the country.  I had finished work at 3 in the morning.  All day one big long strategic assault on my senses, like a sloth boxing Mayweather, and to drive home without a horizon meant that at three I usually fell into bed.  But today I had looked at the tablet - not sure why - seen the numerous unread emails and texts of the last day - and about an hour into them I looked up feeling that only seconds had passed and decided to make breakfast instead of sleep, remembering having been told as a child that there was nowhere that God couldn't see you and hoping it wasn't true, thinking God was like my little sister who one constantly suspected of sneaking up on you but if you could only distract her with her shows for long enough you could tiptoe out and escape to a secret place. 

A cold morning.

"Wanna go fishing?" Kevin gives an alchemic smile.

"I don't know nothing bout no ichthyology."  A flock of birds showers out of the woods, followed closely by a hawk. 

"If your father never did you won't either."  I think about all the people I've chased out of my life, accidentally and on purpose. Out our windows crammed with paint jars low clouds crowd out the higher clouds, a mad mosh pit in the sky. The sun had yet to even take the stage. 

"What was that guy's name," I asked.

"Who, Ted," guessed Kevin, referring to the guy who vanished after the first round of layoffs.

"No, that guy from the Horseshoe, the one that died." 

"Dunno, why?  My brother would know.  I wonder whatever happened to Ted."

"Could be almost anywhere by now."

We run out of coffee so we squinch into my Mazda. I stash the carton of Pall Malls into the glove box so Kevin can swing his bony popping ligaments into the low seat, and we coast in neutral down the hill to the Starbucks while a guy on public radio reads out the names of fake-sounding soviet era government bureaus.  "The Central Reserve of non-Existent Premises," he intones. 

The wind howls as I park, three wide open spaces out front saving me from having to parallel. I miss the organic democracy of parking in unmarked gravel lots.  

That nutty aroma inside is so dense I feel diminished by it.  The smallish early crowd bridging all the gaps between the Americas, anglo and hispanic, black and white, rich and poor.  An old man by the window shares a table with the two small school-aged girls, imperfectly prim little pixies, puckering his whiskered cheeks to whistle at the rising cup of steam.  A woman is talking to her friend on the phone.  I crane my head seeing that she is older than she sounds.  Ahead of us in line, a short dark man in African vestments orders something, thick, like his accent.

"Manolo" a barista barks, placing a drink on the counter.  An old hunchback nun clutching her knuckles into fists emerges from the restroom.  Red and white flashing lights appear down the street before the sirens can be heard.  An ambulance rears past around the corner.  "Carmen!"  the barista calls.

We take our coffee to go and after I have drunk it I go directly to sleep, Kevin to work, I wake myself an hour later with my snores, I open my eyes and continue to dream, feeling that old electric fervor, the  rootless angry howl.  The apartment is mine all day so I forage in the fridge and walk around naked, seeing this new version of myself in multiple reflections and remembering how it used to look, the original incarnation, the ole' band lineup as it were.   Are there connections between who that person was and who I am now?  I used to be a guy trying to live in a mythical construct and now I'm a guy obsessed with destroying that myth.  My gut had broadened and my chest sagged, I still had my hair but the lines had all changed, standing up as tall as I could I thrust my hips a bit. So like, you know, well yeah.

I hold my breath.  Take a hot shower until the manic panic subsides and my palms are wrinkled.  As I towel off my phone buzzes.  The day takes a whole 'nother direction.

She said to meet her at Caruso's at noon and I didn't protest.  Since the breakup we've been crawling toward better things, is what I tell myself.  But what things?  The inner sky is still overcast, it might snow.  

I pass the Horseshoe there alongside the freeway and see a rowdy guy I know from work braced cowboy style out front, what did we even see in that place?  He's a salesman, the nasty pushy type that I despise, I watch the road and hope he doesn't see me but I fantasize that he does see me and the next time he comes up to talk to me I can let some of my hatred toward him boil out.  That'd be a good way to get fired.  I'm all hot air.  The man on the radio said "In ancient Egypt, the servants of the Pharaohs were coated with honey so that the flies would not disturb the rulers themselves."  I switch it off.  The tires roar across asphalt, like crinkling cotton balls in my ears.

I don't see her car and so it feels conspicuous walking into Caruso's, like she's going to pull up behind me, but when I turn around to look she's gone.  What I had wanted was to be her slick secret, a cavernous tunnel into which she could disappear, but she burrowed down and then didn't like it,  she cut me deep, coming up for air and in the process uncovering my insides, I'd been bleeding ever since.  Less cavernous than gaping, less slick than sickly. People like me who hide their problems until they can find no solution except to kill their darlings probably shouldn't be allowed to procreate.  Maybe that's why I pushed them away.  I thought about Trish.  I often do, though we were only together for a short time.  You can never control the thoughts, never prepare for them, they rush in unimpeded, I open the door to the restaurant accompanied by a gale, a loud chime rings.  Be right with you.  I think about her when they interrupt the music at the grocery store to announce a sale, when I'm dialing a client's phone number at work.   Two please, two minutes ‘hun.  I think about Claire, that sweet secluded girl I wooed relentlessly but couldn't figure out how to give any pleasure so I gave up and got mine instead, twice, before she blew away too.

A woman's hand on my shoulder.  Hi.  Nicetoseeyou.  We sit by the window where its slightly secluded but cold.

"Things are good, nice... odd, I guess.”

“Be more specific,” she says.  Her voice has a texture I could wrap myself up in.

She wears glasses because she'd “slept with these contacts in, again.” Her face looking older in glasses, not old, more adult, elongated.  I stretch my legs until they hit the metal bar under the table. I resist the urge to reach across the table and remove her glasses, rub my knuckles against her temple.  I also resist the urge to jam a fork through my dorsal filaments whilst simultaneously pulling away from the table at a sprint, instantly ripping my hand into a Y. 

We order tea and water.  Real big spenders.  She asks some pointed questions, trying to show concern, I think, trying so hard not to look at me askance, that sad emphatic skepticism, that I feel bad for her feeling bad for me.  Why are we even here?

“And how’s your family?”

“My Uncle Russell died,” I say.

She arranges the packets of sugar and sweetener, each in amongst its own kind, bottom to bottom, top to top.  “I’m sorry.  I just…”

We let it hang there.  The waitress returns with our drinks and we drink them.  She checks her phone, giving it more attention than it deserves.  Just like me.

It's been a year," she says at last.  No wonder she asked to meet me.  "I just thought, I didn't want you being too hard on yourself.  There's no formula to this, no spec sheet, it's just, it's hard enough to let yourself love anyone, flaws and all, and then to have all these layers of the past holding you back every day.  I just...”

"Layers," I repeat.  A hint of burning bread wafts in from the kitchen, like a piano with the A^b out of tune.

“Do you know what I mean?”

I nod without looking at her, almost smelling the perfume, or imagining I smell it, her transparent reflection in the window says that this is hard for her.  I should have known.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.  Are you okay?”

"I’m empty as a pocket."

"Who said that?"

"I dunno,” I say, “I might’ve come up with it myself.  Y’know, I am pretty clever."

"Paul Simon," she says, putting her phone back in her purse.

She has to go.  Rather than cavil about the bill I say goodbye.  We don’t hug.  I don’t get up.  I watch her.  I watch a young woman walk in, with tan legs, and when she scooches into her chair across the room her skirt flashes up a bit and my heart leaps at the bareness of the upper thigh.  I blush, imagining the regions I cannot see, all flayed and warped into torrid sexual positions and I laugh out loud at what a joke I have become.  When does it all stop?

Never.  It never stops.  The ego, the pent-up anger, the wandering eyes, the bottomless lust - all together they just might be the breath of life, inhale, exhale, what else is there?

I thought we'd been doing a good job of being inconspicuous but now I suspect that I was wrong.  Too many eyes are looking at not me.  I wish I was a chameleon.

Carrying myself out into the fresh air like breezes unhurled.  Walking back to the car I cast no shadows.  Better get some more sleep before I go back to work.  The sky is a glaucous dome.  Maybe I’ll stop by the Horseshoe.  My stomach gurgles like a man trapped at the bottom of a well.  “There’s no escaping.”  I say.

What was that guy’s name?  It’ll come to me.

H) Hypergraphia habla

 

 

“If I was a sculptor…

or then again, no.”

-Sir Elton John

 

undo

 

Are creatures which are living are but a species of the dead.  Rare indeed, it may be said.  And certainly endangered.  Of the beasts of the field, be they cloven-hooved or pawed, and of the fishes of the sea, and of all the quiescent birds which never rest but to pipe and peck, and of man, standing tall as he teems amongst similarly drab multitudes at the streetcorner sidewalk between 12th and Euclid, or seated slovenly, fumbling for keys at a piano in a brick room down by the railroad tracks,  all are but the tiniest tip of a beautifully sprouted creation, and they are not long for this earth.

            As Dryden wrote in his admonition of modern floral arrangements, "first plant a seed and wait with water as well as sun, then when gloried flower is bloom'd & ripe strive not merely after the beauty'd form without reference to sincerity of substance, tear not away from root..."

 

            Pap, and pablum, my Dad spends his morning sending large quantities of memos out through his Rotary email, all scrawled in a lolling green typeface which makes me sick, since errors grammatical and lexical seem cursorily emboldened.  "This is Multiple Sclerosis Awarness Week."  he says.  Awareness, weak.  "The more people understand what this illness is, the better chance for funding, research and treatment. "

 

Ha! Treatment, as if there were a cure!  Let us frame the question differently so as to see our feeble answers in a more modest light.  Instead of 'Can we find a cure?' perhaps we should be asking, 'What is a disease?'

 

Disordered or incorrectly functioning organ, structure, or system of the body resulting from infection, poison, deficiency or imbalance, or unfavorable environmental factors; any abnormal condition that interferes with vital physiological processes.

            Isn't life itself a disorder?  Who's to say what correct function is?  Infection is just another form of life trying to survive, is it not, so why rate it beneath the infected in terms of import?  Everything living is deficient or imbalanced in proportion to something else?  Is there a favorable environmental factor here?  Favorable to whom, and to what end?  What is normal?  Death is an interference to physiological processes too, chief among them matter of fact, why isn’t  there a cure for death?  Or is life the disease, and maybe death is the cure?  Hydriotaphias United.

 

 

Fluctus quinquis

I'll tell you once more
Before I get off the floor
Don't bring me down

-ELO’s Jeff Lynn

 

Pardon the rare rush of imprecatory ramblings. (I DO NOT EXIST TO ENTERTAIN YOU)  What follows is reified recension, without any raft of quotation such as Eliot might have used only, commoner. (More Commoner, More-Come-on-er,  Moorcambe and Wise, Moonlight Bay, Junebug Moon.)

            Courting the girl is like dragging a sack half full of sticks through the Westfield Mall.  No, that’s not nice or true.  Her skinny is good skinny.  Her comportment is graceful, haughty, (HOTTY) at odds with her eyes, turbulent, lusty, darting.  Her hair is a bristled brambled curl.  Her apartment is a mess.

            In the corner under the window there is a bookshelf made of concrete blocks and 2x4s where her bridal albums sit, a testament to an event I do not wish to acknowledge.  Lots of girls take lots of pictures at their weddings or the weddings of their friends and I just cannot bear to look at them.  Who can?  Sometimes I imagine that the earliest etchings of note which have survived, the illegible scrawl on the unearthed tombs of civilizations now swept into the desert of time, (dessert of time, pie) were we to decipher them, would merely be descriptions of how Margi’s Aunt Carol got flowers on discount from Kroger, and Aunt Patty knew a guy who took all these pictures for a real good price because he’s still just a photography student at the tech school.  Oo, and did I tell you about the deal we got on the cake…

            She sat on her back playing video games while I whispered repeatedly, I wish, that you, would be my friend, (LOSER) I wish, that you, would be my friend, (GROW UP) in a low prayer-like chant, the gaming console caterwauling high above me.

            It occurred to me that I should do something noteworthy and self-destructive to get her attention.  Maybe I would punch a hole in the glass window.

            "Maybe I should punch a hole in the glass window…" I mused just loud enough for her to hear.

            "Maybe you should not," she quickly extinguished.  But I stood anyway and murmured. (Speak up!) "bum" like Larkin, walked to the window where outside the sky was grey and oppressive.  The clouds rush like a highway.  There are no turn signals, no lanes.  Following the metaphor, perhaps someday our highways will be as clouds, swift and silent and covering the earth.  I made a goitrous sound in my throat.  My fist through the glass seemed invited.  Seemed a capital idea.

            "Don't try it,” she said, a book of sewing diagrams in her lap, her fingers painted gold, the smell of Aztec ash and seaweed.

                Attention! I need attention.  Like the other night, within the purple domed vat of the moon by the estuary, when drunk and teetering I led the capricious crowd away from their hovering hovel and down to the water where the tide lapped like greedy fingers upon the stones.  “And now I shall disappear,” I announced, and took off my shirt and shoes.  Pants laid in a sandy pile, all the layers of me gone until I am a pale nothing that everyone looks at and wants not to see.  “Don’t do it,” they say, which is exactly what I want them to say, of course.  “That’s exactly what he wants you to say,” someone says, “ just don’t pay any attention to him,” but they still do, and I still walk down to the water, bare feet feeling the slip and sallow sands diminish beneath my weight.

          

            If we can only truly know ourselves then I know nothing, but count on the hopeless cheerful stupid incompetent dafts to piece myself some semblance of togetherness, a ball of inward facing mirrors, let us say, or a quilt, embroidered with mythic colour, and yet cold to the touch, hollow between all layers.

 

I wade out to critical depth, the lights on the distant shore seem both close and impossibly far.  Impossible, either way, like the plane overhead from the airport nearby, another light I reach for but will never reach.  Or there, under the murk, some sort of darkly glowing sea creature preempting my advancing footfalls and scattering.  Somewhere in the middle, up to my waist, “wasting our time,” meddles the laughtrous throng. 

 

I dive.

Do I put my fist through the glass?

  

fluctus decumanus

 

We're real

world

wide breakin all

the rules

-Sean Kingston

 

The changes wrought by time and eternity bring all to bear and all for naught.  Alteration is the only stable face of the universe.  All life is but a vaporous digression.  Creatures netted in the deep, water through the raised net, far-away clouds refracted on a rainwashed windowpane, (voices in the distance,) gone.

                "Simon Cowell hides behind no man," she said, sipping a forty.  A tattered ghost with phosphorescent hair, wearing clothes that someday fit her and oneday will fit her again.

"This show should have a gong!"

                I remember laughter.  We are all dead here, but I remember laughter.  To you, this is like the bridal albums you never looked at.   As Plath wrote of her dissimulative bloodletting, “anything/give me two children/ Two roses.”

                "Is the pale horse coming?" a sad voice asks.  He smiles but still manages to look suspicious, skeptical, plainly desperate.  I scratch at my head like a dog.  "Does scatter apply underwater?  What is a word like scatter, for when you are underwater?"