Looking back I saw my future, the ever-enclosing walls.
The expansive was never there, it was written but misspelled.
The high chair remained, no room at the big table.
Words set in stone.

The flying demon of my childhood stayed close ever after.
Refuge in the written word, the blood of it, the sheer guts.
The hidden but visible truths found and received.
But so what?

Let me in. That’ll work. A narcotic for inclusion.
Hide in the many as if accepted.
Cover the brain and show the hips. That’ll work.
Seek comfort always in the fetal set-up. No harm, no foul.

A quick one-two punch and remonstrative wailing.
How did she know about me? Those eyes penetrating my soul.
I have nothing to give having nothing that stuck but the charade.
But oh, what precocious tenacity.

Testing the limits on a case-by-case allowance.
Risking all by squeaking through until it passed.
Buoyed by time and age into a comfort zone.
The walls always present, mocking me.

Bounce, run, walk hard keeps a person free of thought
And the devil at bay until night descends and all hell lets loose.
The pattern ghastly beautiful in form expected and received.

It stands lamentably regal on the dusty old armoire in the bedroom.
The woman seems to be dancing to something, skirts twirling around her.
It’s her eyes that caught mine, as if beseeching me to do her bidding.

Around her neck is a chain of twigs that seem to be branding her skin.
Her skirt is tied tightly. Her freedom is a dance, a foot out in front of her
And one arm outstretched. She is eternally ****** yet blessed.

At night I imagine her designing her escape; morning, her resignation.
How easy it should be to undo her ties and remove her chains. I think
Maybe someday, somewhere, she will be free. Whatever that means.

It’s skin blushes like a shy girl and feels like warm sunshine.
I don’t eat the skin; maybe I should if only to understand.
The flesh yields to light pressure and promises an afterlife.
The juice of ecstasy unfolds into a cold hardness at the core.

Take what you will from the experience of the perfect peach.
Do you see intent? A magnificent oddity? A roll of the dice?
What clashes of meteors, what turbulent gods handed us this
double sword? Enjoy it all, this only moment. That’s all we can do.

Dance on your toes, swirling every which way, until you no longer have direction.
Sing a refrain from a long ago song that always made you want to move to its rhythm.

Wiggle your feet into the wet sand until you can see only their bare outline.
Do a pirouette in front of a full-length mirror and then do it again until exhausted.

Smile until it hurts, laugh until you cry, wonder at the hummingbird’s tiny vibrations.
Tiptoe through your next adventure and keep it as a rare and precious jewel.

No one is watching you. No one truly cares. They are dancing to their own music.
Make your last breath of life be one of lightness and joys, fearless to the end.

Both doors are black with metal trim. They are roughly the same dimensions. Easily mistaken.
I keep trying to discern any difference. I must choose. My life depends upon it.
Notice that the left one is ever so slightly crooked.  Should it be perfectly aligned?
The door on the right seems to emanate an unworldly glow that must be considered.

Lightning, thunder, the explosions all over the city, the people running for their lives.
Armed militias surrounding parts of the city, capturing those who don’t belong.
Air raids, screaming bullhorns, no power, no food or water, no first aid, no escape.
The taste of  fear, the smell of defeat, the touch of the inevitable, the view of the end.

The second-hand has almost achieved its final resting place. It’s now or never. I reach out.
Imperfection? A light that might deceive? Where will I end up once I go through the door?
I open the door on the right, as I am mesmerized by its powerful attraction and bidding.
It is coal-dark and very cool in this long corridor that I now walk through to the end.

An arched doorway welcomes me at the end of my trip through the door that I chose.
I step through to an expanse of sand and ocean, feeling a tingling wind on my face.
Up ahead I see only empty makeshift tents touching one another. I hear not a sound.
No creatures of any kind. No humans inside the tents. No weapons, no life. The End.


Inspired by Mohsin Hamid’s “Exit West”

The color of the sky when it can’t make up its mind.
The first line of a book that you CAN put down -- forever.
The dinner party whose guests speak in monologues.

The dress I wore to visit my elderly Aunt Gertrude.
My honeymoon spent on a vinyl-covered sofa.
The flavorless food in any hospital cafeteria.

The water that’s unfit for human consumption.
The air that’s unfit for humans to breathe.
The spent bullets used to attack the enemy.

The words used to muddle the thoughts.
Speeches full of hackneyed slogans for the dimwitted.
The promises never meant to be fulfilled.

The houses in Anywhere USA for those with a dream.
The neighborhood strip malls that promise ongoing mediocrity.
The behemoth plazas contrived to mimic a community.

The mind-numbing escapism that substitutes for culture.
The hours that pass while you’re looking at the clock.
The tedious welcome to each new year as if it were prescient.

The heavy drudgery of lifting and shaping the moments into something else.
The wearisome chore of trying to be enchanted and optimistic for a second or two.
The long and futile wait for the denouement that never comes.

The tides give me structure.
The waves delight and frighten.

The water both cools me and gives me warmth.
The sand between my toes is childhood.

Its qualities and inhabitants preserve my life and humanity.
Swimming at dawn exercises my  body and mind.

I will lovingly walk into the deep when it’s time.
The ocean will be my eternal pillow.