didn't know whether to call a lake or an ocean. Terms had no meaning, or use to try to define. What existed was simply there. Sullen and unconcerned about opinions of themselves. The grass, dirt it laid in, the trees, and the air, were considerate of each other. They considered each other as a person, not a thing. Though the trees sparse, they were, in themselves, where they wanted to be.

 

        I bent down to touch the grass and it became green satin. The boat was ready, I walked over the satin, to the end, barefoot. In the boat, my feet turned the carpet to satin also. The Conquistador started to go, taking me with it, and suddenly it seemed, I looked back to land, and everything shined in the sun, everything was jeweled. I couldn't take my eyes off of the blinding sparkle. Water streamed from my eyes, my hands wouldn't move to wipe the wetness away. Someone told me, silently, to not look that way anymore. I turned toward the wide gulf of water. Saw no boundaries.

 

       

Things stopped. Someone called me to do something I didn't want to do. Without speaking I did it. The mind forgets life sometimes, and through openings in a crack disappear. I do not miss them, nor do I find pity.

 

        One of my kitchen gadgets, one that no name has been invented for, cut my finger yesterday. I hope it doesn't scar. I'd hate to have to use makeup on it. Kitchens have always scare me anyway. When things tighten up, do weird things. The creamed corn bubbles, it is not supposed to do that. I think it is possessed. Gas ovens want to blow up in my face. Matches and lighted matter corrupt paper sensitivities, grafted hurt.

 

        Men's voices, deep choral funereal songs, are sung as they are supposed to be sung everyday. Deep Song. Bass clef notes, not even a true song. Just random black spots held and verbally contorted to fit a face's own plan, too destructive, louder, piling several on top of the lines, in no particular key signature or time, preconducting with finger batons like a true matron attempting salutation. There are no colors. They are done away with and spots are no specific demeanor, keeping time to a wrong metronome. 

RIVER BED   54

copyright © 2017 d.jaffe  - all rights reserved