I sit perched
Not perched but perfectly placed
By the door in english classroom
In the english hallway
Four doors down from the end

The air here is warm
Though this morning it must have been below
Below the freezing point for water
And my engine

And from my perfectly placed seat
I can see
The yellow leaves
Warm against the approaching winters wind

Though it is only September

The classroom- full of life
But only in the sense that
A dozen kids sit taking a quiz
Worth nothing but a number in a book

The life makes it warm
Or is it the fans above
Man made just not by man
No, not man but a fan and a shadow of man

When the yellow leaves echo the cold
When the door closes
And the light
Fades with the warmth

The mantis shrimp
Sees all that I never could.
My creator, ever frugal,
Gave me gifts
Of word and tongue
But only just this once,
Bits of light cowed by the sun.

I peer through the window,
Too short to see those
Violet peaks.

I brush past reality
Like the eyelash fluttering past
My cheek,
Never to really know.

I love the sterile validity
The wavering insecurity
The disparity
of all its complexity

I love the strings
that make fingers bleed
Conductors
who slobber down to their knees
Epic chords that slander like a gentle breeze

What's not to love like the ghost of Mac and Beth
The accumulated end funds
that go not to the bereft
The music like vampires that have no death

Thank God for my joy
that classical dispelleth
My light it distinguisheth
The catch breath as clear as crystal ****

The weekend sprinted past without acknowledgement. More time travel than sleep. Feels like I never left this desk. Did I go outside? Sunlight is a forgotten fancy. Everything buzzes in artificial, mercury-vapour gas-discharge, office white.

Strong coffee, mouth-only smile, and emergency chocolate at-the-ready.

Digital calendar fairy sweeps her wand - plink.
Upcoming meeting onset.
Wince.
Nearly go-time.
Deep breath.
I need help.
Close my eyes and consider my options.

In silent prayer, I call on my battle-allies. My conflict squad for the tiny, inconsequential campaigns that are laid out before me, scheduled neatly in 30-minute increments.

Sarcastic skirmishes with witless weapons. Budgetary disbursement battlegrounds, each heralded by a twinkly bright plink. Officious double agents and grinning traitors. Good sense and basic decency defeated ad nauseam.

Inwardly, I flick through my mental deck of cards. Mythic personality avatars. Figurative and emblematic. Mostly trusted, often helpful allies and collaborators. My squad. Grown over years. Battle-honed when the stakes were substantially higher.

Nine of Swords, Nymph Aegina
Scared and small. Of water and steel
Daughter of rivers
Mistrust, despair
Reduce, retreat, conceal

Queen of Swords, Pallas Athena
Warriors and winter. Shrewd and tough
Strength and judgement
Challenge, compel
Defeat, critique, rebuff

King of Cups, Charles the Great
Gifted and keen. Springtime and fire
Patron of culture
Consider, rethink
Exhort, create, inspire

Five of Wands, keening Achos
Dust and torment. Deep distress
Bringer of weeping
Commend, lament
Regret, bewail, profess

Queen of Wands, Lady of Lorien
Fearless and brave. Of summer and tree  
Wielder of Light
Perform, protect
Assert, direct, decree

I select our Lady, knowing that Aegina and Achos may vie for a cameo.
Channelling my Queen of Wands,
I arrange my face
and await the knock at the door.

My room, the suite, seemed too small.
I felt like I’d been in my room forever.
I’d developed a scratchy sense of stuckness
and a fresh, itchy awareness of dust particles
floating in the stifling, still air that made me
want to stop breathing in so much.

But I didn’t, categorically, have the energy
to get up and focusing seemed like a lot of effort.
I had a big midterm test, first thing this morning
and it laid me to waste, mentally. I think I did well
but it was a feat. Whenever I feel lifeless and weak,
I start to fear I’m coming down with something.

But then, everyone’s tired. The suite seems unnaturally
quiet, as if no one even has the energy to command
our ever-listening AI to play a playlist, so silence
ruled by exhausted default. It’s as if a low-pressure area had
descended to hold off a brush of refreshing ozone and rain.

Could I rouse my posse of symbiotic sort-of siblings
for an outing somewhere - like Toad’s bar - just across the street?
My door was open, so I called out, rather weakly, “Let’s go out!”
Someone, (Lisa sprawled out on the red corduroy couch?)
groaned listlessly from the common area. “My treat!” I updogged.

Five minutes later, it was showers all around. I love a good shower.
A shower’s where I ponder over the big questions, because
answers seem to come quickly there. I imagine I’d be wise
beyond words if I had a house with a waterfall running through it,
like one of those amazing, Frank Loid Wright masterpieces.
.
.
Songs for this:
The Duke Is Gone by Chuck Senrick
Cannock Chase by Labi Siffre