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Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.
Day 20
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
I have fallen down holes one hundred words deep
And with every slippery movement of my tongue,
My world seems that much darker.
I have formed sounds in my mouth good for nothing but regretting
And released them as poison to the ones I love.
Droplets of toxins filling relationship coffins
Faster than the undertakers can have them prepared.
I swear, on whatever is meaningful to you,
I was not born with silver ***** in hand.
In my youth I spoke truth with the purest intent,
Building mountains I would climb to feel closer to the sun.
But as my feet grew longer and my eyes grew wider,
My ears learned the ways of treacherous men.
The first time I felt myself falling it was fun.
The rush of my own voice ripping its way past.
The second time I felt myself falling it was fun.
The thrill of the drop made my heart stand still.
The third time I felt myself falling I heard drums.
Faintly at first, but no doubt, they were drums.
There was the sound of skin, stretched over emptiness,
Shaking in the wake of a violent hand.
My eyes folded narrow, slipped shut, opened wide.
I could not discern whether I was the drum or the hand.
Both shaken and violent, empty and strong,
My skin stretched over my ribs and under my fingernails.
Seventy words down in the hole I heard the pulse,
At ninety words began the droning.
Matchless tone, like piercing your lungs
And listening to the shout that escapes.
At ninety-five words I hated them collectively.
At one hundred words I hated my self.
I have fallen down holes one hundred words deep.
Please excuse my silence.
The darkness that looms one hundred words deep
Is sticky, and icy, and true.
I am not afraid of heights, only of leaving them.
And I refuse to fall in front of you.
Day 19
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Keep your hands to yourself!
     If I have to tell you one more time to stop touching her
     I will duct tape those fingers to your knees so help me God.

Fresh from the womb I felt her.
My hands clawed the air and found her smile,
Before my eyes opened, before my ears could discern,
I felt her love, palpable and near.
After the synesthesia, when her finger no longer sang,
I felt the warmth of her neck as she swayed,
Dancing to the honey her lips spilled in the cool night air,
Her touch was more music to me than rhythm,
More primal an instinct than survival,
I would die holding my mother’s hand.

Bubbles were so much more fun before they became personal.
I spent hours chasing invisible globes
My father created from a mixture of heat and lawn chairs.
I have spent years chasing invisible globes
My peers have created from a mixture of insecurities and histories of cold.

When I am gone my heart misses you.
When I return and you extend your hand
I begin the conversation I have had with myself too many times to remember.
     They don’t mean that they don’t love you.
     But doesn’t their heart feel it too?
This magnetic pull of our celestial bodies
Gravity drawing them together until they would join in the enigma of unity
Nebulous at best I would call your reaction
It seems you would rather keep me in orbit,
Just close enough to peek at on cloudless nights,
Just far enough to let me take the asteroids on my own.

I want your hands all over me.
Since birth the world has removed itself from me,
Carving borders and barriers, walls and fences,
And the immutable space that is between you and me.
Deep in my heart waves the flag of rebellion
Held in the hand a young boy thrusts high in the air
Forever kept in the age of innocence,
The age without fences,
When it still seemed right to embrace the ones you love.
He is wearing a baseball cap and cowboy boots
And wants to know why you feel so cold.

So here we are, floating.
And I’m asking you to fall.
I am asking you split your bubble at the seems
And leap into my arms full of fear and free of expectations.
I will catch you and press you close to my heart
Where the children of the rebellion meet.
We are not falling, we are jumping.
And the heart of the earth has missed us so.
Day 18
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Avalanche pending
The look in a drummer's eye
           Bury me alive
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
I will swallow broken bits
of the apologies you won't let me give
until I make my stomach filled
and dense enough to sink.
Pulling on my heart
with fingernails of memories
and memories of fingernails
and voices mixed with mine.
Mixing wine with vinegar
in the corners of my mouth
I'll spout and spray this canvass
with the tragedy I want and have not found.
I am still louder than my heart at times.
You know this all too well.
Tooth and molar pass my tongue,
Swallowing culprits one by one.
Lift my jaw above my head
And use my heart to think.
Drink the offering inside my veins.
Use the knife I spoke to you.
I will be lying in the field of somber pauses
Where you first helped me to speak.
Day 17
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
When I speak,
It is not so much for you
As it is for me.
Every word,
Echoing in the ballroom
Between my teeth,
Sets my jaw to dancing.
Sibilant whispers
Tickle the tip of my tongue,
Kissing the hiss
Of sunlight on daisies.
The hum drum of mountains
Growling at the ceiling,
Like a kitten purring
Against my nose.
Oohs and Ahs,
Medicine for my cheekbones.
Such ointment as vowels
No doctor has seen.
When I speak,
At times when no ear is listening,
It is not so much for what
As it is for how.
Every word
Stretching time,
Composite peace.
Day 16
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
Crawling,
nimble fingers curl,
green tongues speaking,
the prairie grass buckles
under weight of the fickle wind.
Cool weather and farm dust
thrown from its right hand.
A solid left hook
burning holes in its pocket.
Day 15
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