A black and white film About an old man and his dog. There is no dialogue. Just ambient sounds -
First, of the alarm clock’s monotonous song. Followed by an abrupt cutting silence as his hand slams down on the snooze button
Then, the sound of a coffeemaker spitting and burbling. The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug. Sugar, then milk, the clink of the spoon against the ceramic as he stirs the long first sip
As the man looks curiously at something on the fridge, just out of frame. A bag of dogfood opening.
hard kibble ringing against the metal dish. The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting. Tupperware opening The hum of a microwave, and the beep. Last night’s stew poured into a bowl the rest, over the kibble.
The closed caption reads: [Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]
The sound of water running as the bowls are scrubbed clean.
The door closing as the two leave for their morning walk. The old man and the dog are now sitting on a park bench.
The grass, still wet from the morning dew. There is a beautiful sunrise over the nearby lake.
The camera pulls away, as music overtakes the diegetic sounds of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners, and teens playing hooky.
The camera cuts back to for a beat to the kitchen in the empty house.
The camera zooms in on a weathered and well loved piece of paper held up by a rainbow magnet on the refrigerator door.
the silence never bothered me before- quiet between two so intertwined is not uncomfortable like the silence it is merely absence of sound -but it bothers me now all but consuming my mind
and i say nothing and you say nothing and everywhere there is nothing
i pray for the radio to work its charm with those magic changes give me a song to sing give me anything that would be better than this small talk between two so intertwined
"you're awfully quiet," you say and i say nothing because my right brain has a lot to say but my left brain knows not to say it
i want to say, "i know that you don't want me here" the thought, clear like perfectly formed ice, echoes through my mind: (i know that you don't want me here, i know that you don't want me here...) somehow that is the one thing worse than the deafening silence because it's the truth and we both know it
i want to scream, "can't you see i'm hurting?" it's written all over my face in smiles that don't reach my eyes in lips joined in vowed silence
"i miss you," you say and i say nothing but i want to be the braveheart and cry something bold, like "if that is so then how come when i'm here your face is illuminated by a phosphorescent glow?" but i hold my tongue i know my thoughts are wicked yet they are my thoughts
and i say nothing and you say nothing and the silence says everything
Old gentle vague dark sea stars uncoffined above my drummer grave blind of age, meet Mr. Numb Feelgood he is dying - chasing smoke, following a blind parade wanderin’ anywhere forked like Yes at every dusty, homely, strange-eyed landmark until driven deep down dead
Dear old diamonds, my sleepy southern song spell fades , my past was a young clown dancing, swingin' my magic heels raging and cursing death’s grip on time
Now, I feel that morning’s fierce burn vanishing into a tambourine memory and I’m caught madly dreaming against the ragged anywhere to return green tomorrow
This poem was composed primarily from words found in Bob Dylan's "Tambourine Man", Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", and Thomas Hardy's Drummer Hodge
everybody’s angel bodies find happening midnight on Kansas pavements hipsters’ motherwords are wholely robed by time instant everything is ordinary buggered city immortals -- annoyed, parentless, marijuana everymans swiftly digging unknown eternity groaning strange in the long mysterious night roaring, vibrating kindness from their holy tongues blazing inner hideous human gold draining ***** forever draining everything forever - Moloch, Buddha, Abyss Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
Mostly a Cutup from "Daydreaming of Ginsberg" by Jack Kerouac, and "Footnote to Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. NaPoWriMo 2015
To make sense of it, imagine its explaining the modern world to the beat generation in their own language.
I The phone was screaming in my pocket its voice was muffled by the pile of clothes on top of it
The hotel water was almost too hot it blushed my scalp and cascaded down my face in a way that should have felt like baptism but didn't
After what felt like an eternity the call went to the black hole that is my neglected voicemail now at over a hundred missed calls
I didn’t want to talk not to Dad, not to Mom, not to my fiancé, and definitely not to some reporter trying to make our ****** up family the topic of the nine o’clock news
II The pipes in the wall clunked around for a second as I turned the ****, cutting the water off I stepped out of the shower somehow feeling less clean than when I entered
For a moment I stood there, towel over my head in complete darkness
I closed my eyes and saw him standing across from me his eyes, locked with mine dad’s gun in his shaking hands - pointed directly at my head unblinking, full of hatred, anger and fear
They’ll call him a monster and knowing what he’s done, I won’t be able to say they’re wrong
III Sympathizers will say that the divorce messed him up somehow or that he inherited our mother’s mental illness or that he played too many first person shooters – which is just ******* stupid
Lying on the hotel bed, I nakedly examined the ceiling mapping out the distance between water stains like a cartographer
The last time he called me he was in tears, because some ****** from his school beat him to a pulp and shoved his face in dog ****
I can’t help but dwell on something I said to him that night:
“People like that don’t change they become ******* adults and keep kicking people around because they can Because they’re rich and we’re poor and they don’t want to see people like us we remind them that the world isn't perfect and doesn't revolve around them”
I don’t want to believe that I planted the seed, that the one time he listened to me –
IV Six people died most of them, kids no older than seventeen one teacher, and a janitor - tagged by a stray bullet two kids have been in critical condition for the last three days
He must have been terrified in those last moments before the cops riddled him with holes
He must have regretted it or at least regretted not having an escape plan
He never did think things through unlike me, connecting the countries on the ceiling drawing imaginary lines of cause and effect and trying to figure out what it means to be a big brother in the absence of a little one