Errant thoughts glisten like
thick frost that appears long
before the clear indigo sky pales.
Icy air seeps through miniscule
gaps between window and sill,
cascading down the wall, slowly
splashing on and across the floor.
From the churning confluence,
images drift like mist above a
waterfall . He deflects. Reading,
searching, as if scripture
could shield him, could divert
the flood. He needs more than
an echo of his thoughts. More
than a crude, soulless golem,
or a shadowy doppelganger. He
needs essence: common, tangled,
roots that nourish and inspire, to
ground him in time and place.
Long sleepless nights like
this freeze time. Imagination
grips his heart, squeezing
until his chest pounds.
Singers accompany
his drumming heart.
If he looked out the window
he would see steam rising
from the vent as his clothes
tumble dry, as the dryer exhales
moist, hot air. Instead he sees
the breath of singers rising,
matching the rhythm spiraling
from the drum, accompanied by the
thunderous dances of buffalo and
holy chants of Yei-Be-Chai.
Rhythm fills the night.
It rises from his heart.
Night wraps him like
a second skin, a twisting
and pulling wave
charging a sandy beach.
Above thunderous surf
a voice wafts, riding the soft
mist haloing turbulent water
stampeding all around.
His spirit rises. In the powerful
grip of an undertow, his body cannot.
Near the sparkling surface
memory breaks free, breaches,
arching high in the air.
His first death. Murdered
by loving parents. Water
boarded before the CIA
had a name for it. Then a
second. Abandoned, he felt
the suffocation of banishment.
And a third, a forth.
No beacon to the other side.
He lingers.
He follows
the calming voice.
Opaque water undulate as
swells pass beneath the rippled
surface, reflecting the faint light
of stars, scattering the argent
glow spilled by a full moon.
Polaris faintly glimmers and
winks, showing a way,
guiding.
Slowly,
unexpectedly,
he breaks the tension
separating ocean from air.
He sees man-shaped kelp
kissing the salty surface,
returning the indifferent
ocean’s kiss of life.
The rise and fall
has no rhythm.
His drum beats.
His blood dances.
The rhythm rises
from his heart.
btrue
19feb2014
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Errant thoughts glisten like
thick frost that appears long
before the clear indigo sky pales.
Icy air seeps through miniscule
gaps between window and sill,
cascading down the wall, slowly
splashing on and across the floor.
From the churning confluence,
images drift like mist above a
waterfall . He deflects. Reading,
searching, as if scripture
could shield him, could divert
the flood. He needs more than
an echo of his thoughts. More
than a crude, soulless golem,
or a shadowy doppelganger. He
needs essence: common, tangled,
roots that nourish and inspire, to
ground him in time and place.
Long sleepless nights like
this freeze time. Imagination
grips his heart, squeezing
until his chest pounds.
Singers accompany
his drumming heart.
If he looked out the window
he would see steam rising
from the vent as his clothes
tumble dry, as the dryer exhales
moist, hot air. Instead he sees
the breath of singers rising,
matching the rhythm spiraling
from the drum, accompanied by the
thunderous dances of buffalo and
holy chants of Yei-Be-Chai.
Rhythm fills the night.
It rises from his heart.
Night wraps him like
a second skin, a twisting
and pulling wave
charging a sandy beach.
Above thunderous surf
a voice wafts, riding the soft
mist haloing turbulent water
stampeding all around.
His spirit rises. In the powerful
grip of an undertow, his body cannot.
Near the sparkling surface
memory breaks free, breaches,
arching high in the air.
His first death. Murdered
by loving parents. Water
boarded before the CIA
had a name for it. Then a
second. Abandoned, he felt
the suffocation of banishment.
And a third, a forth.
No beacon to the other side.
He lingers.
He follows
the calming voice.
Opaque water undulate as
swells pass beneath the rippled
surface, reflecting the faint light
of stars, scattering the argent
glow spilled by a full moon.
Polaris faintly glimmers and
winks, showing a way,
guiding.
Slowly,
unexpectedly,
he breaks the tension
separating ocean from air.
He sees man-shaped kelp
kissing the salty surface,
returning the indifferent
ocean’s kiss of life.
The rise and fall
has no rhythm.
His drum beats.
His blood dances.
The rhythm rises
from his heart.
btrue
19feb2014