Posts Tagged Spring
The Heavy Flow of Minor Disturbances – #1
The morning shadows have a new shape, and the cacophony of the birds has started again. Foreshadows of hope, it’s on the way, and I refuse to stop, to ask why because I know this little buzz, this hope-thing being on the way is a silly artifice made of tissues.
The winter sun has frightened me for so many countless months, causing guilty pleasure and pride with the trinkets from my endurance, still wondering what kind of animal I might be. Not all of the people see the monsters in the shadows, crawling longingly on the bright winter days. The monsters are ghosts, or spirits, and they’re not interested in being seen as they are far too busy singeing the raw nerves of the fragile psyches (ones such as mine), which make us little, gangly, spider-like animals too timid to go out, lest we be smashed by the semi-trailer which has been dislodged and has flown perfectly to land centered on our little plastic cars.
But today, I’ll drive slowly in the little residential neighborhoods, not for fear of being trashed by the trailer but for fear of smashing any heavy wall, smoothly and head-on. My car window is down by about 2 inches and confidence in my spirit grows with the crisply testy, cool breeze. I will feel comfortable for I will be familiar with almost all of the people, and some of them are as nice as a human can be. I need my meeting, my medicine.
It’s this backdrop that causes surprise upon reflection. What is it buried so deeply that made me break down in complete despair, sobbing like an uncontrollable fruit fly?
Warm fuels green fusion
specks, contrails, windows, insects.
Swim in joy, dig deep.
Blades bend, arc in smooth caress.
Soon we will dance with bunnies.
Loud Birds This Morning
The birds were loud this morning. I wore my brightest white. I was especially crisp with a Buckley tie, kelly green and navy. A big chick hatched across the street, gradually bulging large pieces of egg crust, bulges in sandy browns with sharp edges, steam crawling in large fluffs of bubbling blue gasses, and all sorts of man-made things blowing up at least 12 houses. The birds tried to tell me how fouled up I am. My shoes were unpolished. There was a certain brightness like the rec room in hell. My car did not want to work and neither did I. But everything was starting to bathe in the green of the new world. I wished that my world was sparkling new each year.
The Blistering Heat of Passing Time
The boy walking aimlessly down the street appears to be painfully hot in his black, rock-concert t-shirt. It is too hot for early spring.
The old man feels memories of tiny, distinct bits of last summer, stunned at how fast time has whipped through and past a fall and a winter and now, at any moment, there will be the swishing and swashing of the heat of summer. It will be here again. The old man wants to freeze the time. He wonders if there is a drug for freezing time.
When the old man was a boy, some days would last forever, especially days when he wondered down streets that were radiating heat seasoned with slight whiffs of tar. One summer before seventh grade, he dreamed of making the basketball team, and each day he spent two hours in the blistering sun, starting and stopping all over a blacktop that had the infinite presence of an empty universe. Those hours never wanted to pass, and the terrible heat reinforced the hope that hard work might result in glory.
A bent-up, blue, plastic antifreeze bottle with a fuzzy, faded label blows by, buoyed and inspired by the south wind, ringing out like a bongo drum with each landing and shaking the old man’s sense of peace, causing him to crunch his hope for a passable day.
He sits there twisting his face with the envy for the boy who can be aimless. He feels the knives of purposelessness aligning his innards, but he longs to be aimless again and to be given days that will last forever.