Tremors


Thoughts followed me down the narrow hallway like a false fire alarm as I stupidly/innocently scratched at an open wound. The world is a stage containing your fever. Trembling rhythms and Apache hide. adorned in contusions. Boots dancing on pavement. Angel rope tying your feet. Erratic rhythms. Erratic rhythms. Your innocence behaving badly. Great thrashing winds. Great leaping wings.

I crept into room #105 like smoke.

“There’s been an accident”

A puddle of black licorice oil soaked your feet. The black bled into the cotton white socks and feathered red up to the elastic band, in that moment I realized it wasn’t oil at all. Those socks were the same socks I pocketed as a child after visiting my ill grandfather once at Hospital. (There was a time when I wasn’t old enough to tell important lies.) Identical beds, identical socks, identical intoxicating stench, identical dread, yet, nothing was the same. The hospital beds all lined up and sterile had a misty green illusion to them – for a moment I questioned if I was even in a hospital. Flood lights reeked of abuse upon the beds. Not a soul was in the chapel, in fact, it had been abandoned for decades harboring nothing but a juvenile carving directly into the colossal wooden doors reading:

Decaying is a beautiful thing.

Staring at the stain glass image of Mary cradling Jesus reminded me of my inner longing for i, myself, to transform into a painting in a well established Museum. Painted by the masters. Never a need for eloquent words. I am aware museums are lonely and sad in most terms. They’re reminders of a destructive past and warnings of a destructive future. However, to be motionless and preserved. To be preserved. My mother used to spend her Sundays watching the streets. Watching people drop things like napkins and receipt for things they didn’t really need. Loneliness – the human condition. Its the reason why businessmen sit on trains with bowed heads and metaphorical bandages on their hands; a diversion from self crucifixion. The reason why ladies kiss the back of their hands to check on the red. Its the same sickness. Never share common interest with the devil.

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This entry was published on October 18, 2011 at 5:19 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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