Where I’m From

Hang on for a minute...we're trying to find some more stories you might like.


Email This Story






Trudging towards gemstones of the night, tugging at chains from my mind

Left to wrestle with sludge of my head, clock dripping oppression. 

Raging against the pace of thought that leaves me at this hour

In a room of dour silence, sour air, staring through glass 

The page stays white. 

This double springed mattress is a siren. The seductress beckons.

Time wasted and days squandered bubble up as shaken pop

A lone mark creeps onto the page, a slender figure in the white, surfacing after the storm

The dam breaks; I revel in electric freedom.

Desk shaking with force of my fingers, the page is not white anymore.

 

Here, I ponder.

 

The sound sings glorious, robust projection filling the space

Where I come to relieve my weights, translate my soul into sound

A language of my own. 

Fingers type out sonic correspondence to my father, mother and myself

Flow through portals open on the walls and door frames

(Can the curious calico cat who comes close hear the melody?)

I own two horns. One ugly, and the other uglier.

Lacquer scraped off, teeming with brick red rot (vintage, not old)

“The Pretty Lady” and “The Ugly Lady” both in plastic sarcophagi

Until I take them to waltz, a dance of rhythms that will come alive and forgotten the next day.

 

Here, I paint.

 

When the page is full, when the sound goes silent

When I tire of day, when I tire of night

When the length of the shadow grows in the light

I come here.