s t  r   e    t     c      h       i         n       g
long corrrrrridors
ache with those
who once
           w
                a
 T                   l
   H                     k
      E                      e
         M                      d

can you hear their echoes coming back?

from so             F A R              away
and
          d
             o
          w
             n
                    these mirrored halls?
that distorted the truth
                           and their reality?

if a person is a place
can you return
to them, yourself, each other

( from where )


if we renew ourselves
are we meeting again
is our memory gone?

( from when )


are you returning
or are you coming
for the first time


( to here? )

if this is new,
is this new?
is it an antecedent to our anecdote?

Sometimes,

And only sometimes,

The walls crack and

Burst forth



Blessings, an ode to the Silent—

All who see it—by which all do see it,
See its sound, round the feet that start to tap, to

Symphonies, to newer worlds than ours.



Resonating upon these empty halls,

Orchestrated by voices,

Never slurred or sharpened or slid so often:

Elegiac or elegied. We are uncertain.

The walls break, though,

And burst forth bounty

Letting ring amongst masses
(That which we whisper afterwards)

Originating light, itself, beaconing



Overheads, above

Newspapers, narrowed eyes, nocturne night-owls

Across, around ticks and boxes, circled, crosses, texts, and line-borders

Resonating upon our empty halls, walls, all;

Poco a poco, almost piano, punctuating,

Odes to joy and a chorale for something—

Sometimes



and only
some
times.
We break down our own walls

and bring forth
blessings.

In a dream,
Or a nightmare,
Everything seems            out           of                           place.
Things start out right,
And then,
                                    You’re dropped into an ocean.
               You’re naked and drowning,
          Sleeping and awake.
        Slipping away into a panic,
     Floating on a wave of  d i s c o n n e c t.
Grasping for anything,
     You hold on to thin air.
Feeling good with just that,
                                     The darkness grabs your s
                                                               ­                          e
                                     ­                                                     n
                                                               ­                             s
                                                               ­                              e
                                 ­                                                              s.
­Gaining visual on your position,
You swim a short mile.
      Lost with no vision,
You look outside yourself a while.
Your view from up above,
     The ocean seemed to move.
      God knows how long it has been
Below,
       The water blackens.
               You lose faith,    
                                                                ­    The darkness wins again.

©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis

My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.

A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.  

Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.

How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power.

By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.

All my friends are tortoise-shelled Merlins stalking statues
with their walking canes at dusk while
I pad behind them on all fours
as the day breaks the clouds like wet tissue.
And, Garrett, you broke the picket line –
Once the spotlight’s beam with that grin wider than yours and mine’s minds’ intangible illusions – Now the rustle of an intermission between stage and applause.
Our afternoons were spent *******
nicotine out of burning daily afflictions
between raspy exasperations and half-laughing
declarations about how we couldn’t catch a break.

I would ask you why, but it’s not my place.
It’s not yours, either.

I’ll tell you The Why about me, Garrett. I’ll tell you the right
and proper Why I had to pause and stifle
my cigarette break before my wrists broke
                before my wet-eyed babbling witnessed your last wave’s exhalation on all our friends

The Why I was 40 when I saw the shady What If [the same
                that stalked you] linger round my mother. And
                I heard your exhalation of “Mama Kara” and
                I remembered how to act.
The Why I was 13 when I begged the ambiguous How Do I out of you
                when I felt lifeless and pale within UIC's Courtyard -- all of our eyes spread white and feverish.

We can never pay for it -- too much of one thing is
Our buckled knees dragging the question to the fountain to make it drink.
Garrett – although so distant, the brush you had on me is the echo of a “Yup” and an “I know, right?”  and "Yo, lemme get a square,"
that drowns out the reverberating sound
of grief-clapping palms,
and cries, of everyone’s “Why?”