Mixed
Posted on: 23/9/2021
There were times when we thought everything would be alright. That the decisions had no consequences, that every time when a risk was taken, the bank account was emptied, a trip made to an unknown part of town – nothing would happen. We were cast among the white, invincible and invisible, above all else, above the ground and the concerns of normal idiots content to wash away their days on dry land. It is true, we were not like normal people. We were etched into car siding. Laughing even though we glanced at the rear view mirror obsessively. The game was played, the game was played. For hope that there was a winning hand and the winning hand would correct whatever the outside had done to the inside. But that was looking at magnolias lined with a thin layer of snow outside an avenue. The skyscrapers were nearby and we were shivering in the Acura Integra because we couldn’t afford the gas to run the heat.
Waiting, always waiting. The forever tolerated procession of delays, excuses, happenings, and potential dangers that we accepted as reality: the cost of business. The cost of this lifestyle between pockets of air. I let each wave pass over me. The despair of not having. The excitement of the phone call. Nervousness as you turn from sign to sign as the streets grow dirtier, less familiar, more beyond the quotidian. Staring at the empty driveway, the slightly damp creases between each connected bone. From twitch to twitch the specter grows larger. And miracle as the phone rings, the man appears, the bags come out. An empty exchange of words and paper. Then off to the moon where we can be safe again, where the shame and suffering can hide on the other side for at least a spell.
The political digressions of power gained and power lost seem to find their rightful place on the carpet. Where the other soiled dead animals lie. A poster with Mark Hamill’s face. A laughing voice from outside the window. A multicolored symbol bouncing around the computer screen. Your socks are made of rainbows pointing toward the sky. The sky enclosed by the bricks and the sweat of men you will never meet. Long ago gone. Everything long ago that ever was, that ever could be was and will be again. The cycle. The harvest of my thoughts into yours and how they sprout, how we can spread ourselves among the brown and orange leaves and let blossom the waste to become us in variegated arrays of sepia. The inside fever strikes quite fast. Each mirror mirrors the other and we look down the long tube of reflection, lost. In the moments we are catching what must, or what we think must, be good.
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