Refuge of fled Olympians and earth-forsaking men. Where next, then, great Apollo? Where next, oh billionaires? I’d rather take the subway home— this earth was never theirs.
Category: Bits and Pieces
2020. / FALL.
This was the rift. This echoes.
This year has history in its sights
and will be written into books.
This new decade of new horrors
- we seem to forget the old -
has come to a shuddering start.
Red dust rained from ash-stained skies.
The rusted water puddled in places, and where it puddled it dried into drifts. Sweeps of muddled red dirt from far-off distant deserts lay on every pavement, pooled between the cobblestones, gathered on windowsills and clung to window glass. It haunted the city for weeks, like the echoed calls of phantom desert dogs, prowling with the dry.
Echo.
As though the voices
were bounced back
hitting off
the hardwood floors
reverberating
through the common footings
up through the floorboards
and shooting in the zone
above the rooftops
in a radar’s sweeping arc.
After Sunfall.
Up above, from tall, invisible trees, two birds call-and-answered in delicate, dawn-like song. There was a crisp freshness to the air that like the birds spoke of morning. The sky was the shade of holiday-beginnings — of taxis caught under early-morning skies. On this topsy-turvy day, tilting at the turn of the seasons, I could almost smell the blossom promised by the bare, sticky branches of the neat street-trees. Their austere nude winter limbs were soon to be transformed into fleeting beauties, dressed in sweet pink tulle, white lace, and glinting emerald buds. In the garden, winter-blooming bulbs perfumed the air, sweet and cloying. They’d pushed themselves inevitably onwards, upwards, through the soil and the old weathered wood-chips and the nights’ frosts. I’d watched them growing, determined and mysterious, and wondered who had planted them and how long ago. Once close enough to the sun they sprung into tight white clusters of pretty, simple flowers and bravely sang of spring while the winter raindrops clung coldly to the air.
Ghosts.
Their favourite game
is to run run run
up and down up and down
the hallway of the house
next-door.
Plot-Point.
The shop’s windows were painted over with advertising. The front counter, made of red and white speckled melamine, was heaped high with impulse-buy opportunities—lolly-pops, gum-balls, postcards and cigarettes—and manned by a teenage girl who acknowledged my entrance with a brief and artificial smile and then returned to desultorily filing her fingernails. The light filtered through the lurid paint only dimly, tinted red, blue, and yellow, so that the backmost rows of shelves were cast in shadow.
Rain Landing.
Land on head-tops caught uncovered.
Land on lips and tongues stuck-out.
Botany.
Monstera Mike grew wider and taller and spread forth great leaves that cleaved themselves with holes, bright limish when young, maturing to a deeper rainforest green. He spat stems willy nilly and leaned into the sunlight, sprawling himself luxuriantly through the air.
Next-Door.
But what if
when I step through
it’s not this door I opened?
Magical: Day One 