Fearing the chronic angers of that house,
pushing every feeling out
The stool, standing tall, under my feat, the seat
Holding me high, eye to eye, with my Father’s
My bed, safety lately, where I’d rather be, alone/

The rocking chair creaks as
Plantain chips crackle and wreak in an oil sheet.
Table cover creased, arrangements around
The feast. The yelling begins and will not cease.

And small hands folded in lap, while
Tears leak out both eyes, slowly
on the right and left cheek, left to weep.
Wanting so much to move,
and rain outside fell too.

Clouds move slowly across a morning sky,
and our sun’s rays show bright in the day.
Language and words, diction and phrase,
will fall, eventually, on the blank page.

Hands push hair out of the way,
showing a face once hidden.

Soft grass pushes up against my ears,
As the note pad to my left drifts away.
Pen and all, floating from where I lay,
taunting me to chase and keep it near.

I felt as if I was descending upon hell itself, the irony being that I ultimately chose to enter through the metal turnstile gate, fully knowing that by doing so I could have no intention of turning around. By this self-declaration I had sentenced myself to whatever remained below these concrete subway steps.

I heard the clambering of demon folk or such similar above and behind us, down the long corridor. The bottle in front of me sweat beads of perspiration as I wished to dive into its cool abyss, but at last and a las our train had returned from its voyage previous and my companion and I ran to board it, in the process spilling my open bag upon the ground giving us almost no time to collect my things and sprint forward to hit the closed doors about to move on without us.  Later I said
“good call on getting the water, but bad call on missing our last train out of this concrete hell hole.”
As the constant distant voices of normal conversation and relaxed but regular footsteps progressed on inching towards us I noticed that at the same time a crowd never seemed to appear from either end, slowly crawling towards our position, never reaching the shadow of the light.

Then all of a sudden the room became crowded with all sorts of commotion and populous. It seemed that from my right and my left there seemed to be young attractive parties with no elderly or even near middle aged people to been seen, gallivanting and carrying on with the utmost sensation of joy and festivities. I knew this should have seemed nice, but I eventually came to the realization that this was not heaven but merely a mirage, one where my friend and I were marooned on a floating rock on top or this lava river of a Metra track, unable to swim towards the parties edge or escape through the tunnel in front or behind us.

Right then as the deafening roar dimmed from my back, I remembered the train that just arrived was not for us but headed in the opposite direction for we had chose to face the way of our destined transportation since our first mistake of hesitation.

Once safely through the translucent portal and comfy in my seat adjacent to a stabilizing chrome pole, I noticed to my right was a group, and including a boisterous individual with a puffy bruise on his right cheek bone proving a previous fight, and inside his pierced and cracked lips a glowing e-cig billowed, blowing out water vapor, saving the planet, not ruining lives.
I believed that group to my right to be speaking of something very high minded, allowing me to think they were old friends, intelligent and witty in their own right. This lead me to find them all very attractive in their own right, when I discovered their talk had been disgustingly insignificant and a kin to sleeping arrangements in an outdoor tent or a simple car ride with ones extended family members.

And I saw myself in him, this grotesque and angry beast, churned out by societies digestive system and beaten back into sensation to go off and create a horrible husband for some very unlucky girl. And the transcendentalism then that hit me now of how I was him and my father and the hobo three seats to my left too. I was all of them in different paths of alternate truths allowing my specific character, now, to go forth on any path, different paths, leading toward mediocrity, excellence or insignificance. Tell me, whose path is which in this metaphor?

I feel  drying contacts sticking out from my eyes,
dragging their silicon edges into my egg whites
looking onto a road I’ve never seen.

She is asleep, next to me, sitting shotgun. I don’t mind.
She is somewhere else, dreaming, those crazy little scenes.
She imagines a world, one of happy changes, and simple things

In an hour or so she’ll wake up and ask
how long she slept, and I’ll lie.
“a couple minutes or so” to save her worry.
And though I see her eyes drift off and descend,
I know, she’ll come back to me, again.

The brisk air sets on moist and grassy sheets
Of lawn that’s covered, colors on colors and hues
Reminding me that back home the warm feast
Awaits the family. Pumpkins as well as
Squished squashes align wet and foggy stoops,
And white smoke billows against darkening
Autumn skies. Slick streets littered with the branches
Of looming trees that lack their leaves once again.
The sidewalk walkers decline as the season
Still marches on with time. The temperature
Will fall as summer will proceed to fall.

Hand over hand, pulling in the line
as waves crash, and continuously crack.

The bow and back, hit hopefully
by wind strong enough
to push us home, or out to sea

or boredom rises from the deck, as we create
tied knots neat and straight, as our thoughts drift
through calm breeze shifts, and still we sit
with no work here to do but wait.

The port fish below
and the starry birds above
know little of our troublesome tides,
the pain and burden of our lives
and reaching through the immensity of the world I float.

Upon the mattress she
    lies, with her head moving back and forth
slightly, and dreams progress, as eyes will show,
       fluttering, hauntingly.

       The gold folds spill on top
   of pillows smashed and creased from use,
and her feet are exposed at the beds end
       leads to smooth skin shown

       Only glimpses of
   freckles, that scatter on bare legs.
The blanket drapes her middle. Blue
       linen surrounds pale body,

       Which has become part of
   the atmosphere in this room. Her
presence known, only, through memory and slight,
       quiet breathing near window light.