Fishing

There's a girl I sometimes see by the creek. She comes and dips her toes in the water and giggles. Sometimes I spy her reading a book under the tree. It's often an adventure book like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and The Lord of the Rings. Even more often, it's in languages that I can't understand.

She bears a curious magic, this girl. It is a very powerful magic, but I have yet to identify its type. When she reads, for example, her fingers will grow into the pages themselves (or the pages grow into her, I am not sure which way it goes exactly), so the two are seamlessly connected. When the pages turn, it's a singular, breezy movement that mirrors the simple grace of the stream. I am not sure if she is turning the pages, or she is letting the pages turn her. I say, "letting the pages turn her" because in my mind, there is no doubt that she is controlling -- or at least granting -- this strange and beautiful dance. Much like a conductor who over-watches the flowing sections that make a unified piece.

I have never seen her fishing, but I have noticed a string of fishing line tied around her ankle that carries a row of hooked fish. The line runs perfectly through the bottom of their lower lips, and they are evenly spaced. They drag and bump on the ground as she walks. At first I noticed about six behind her, but now the number has risen to a dozen. Sometimes the new ones will flop and fight the way fish do, but they eventually succumb and fade, turning into raw lumps of flesh that tear apart as they are dragged.

The most curious thing is, in my opinion, the fact that she doesn't even notice them. She giggles at bloated toads and paces with her books, but her gaze never touches the line, nor her step falter under its weight.
I have studied with fascination, wherever I could -- under the dock, by the water's edge in the reeds, in the shallows -- and now suddenly, at the end of the line behind the other fish.

September

A sort of depression hits me, when I walk outside, and the first leaves begin to brown. Even at this age, when I'm going to my retirement party -- an especially early retirement party -- I still feel depressed. Maybe it's the loss of basic elements -- mud, greens, tree forts -- the elements that fade when the world begins to die.
I stop in front of a tree and watch a leaf slowly dance down -- as if it was oblivious to the life that the tree gave. I have maybe two weeks left? Two weeks of lifeless melancholy before I scramble to find an empty seat at the back of the class. A seat away from the glares.
This is on my mind, like a damp cloth, for the next ten minutes before I come to the party. Then like the dancing leaf, my youth reaches its end and I grow up. Grow up, and fall back to the earth.

Actors and Astronauts

At five o'clock they come out. Streaming from the sewers and popping out of pavement cracks and hidden realms of the city. Young and ambitious they are, wearing crisp suits as black as their shoes. Their fragrance is subtly fresh and their hair is impeccable -- even this late in the day. Two eyeballs are dressed with glaze made from screens and papers. A drained hunch compliments their spruce appearance. What may give them away from the real thing, perhaps -- the ones who've made it -- is the trendy messenger bag hanging over their shoulder. It's a clue to what lurks behind their curtain.

They cram on the subway, hold the bar, and look wearily at the floor. Another day done.
A half-hour later they squeeze off and walk through a maze of crowds and streets -- without looking up. Their bodies are on the autopilot of instinct and repetition. Outside the apartment they may meet their significant other -- wives, husbands, boyfriends, and girlfriends -- who just came back from the same day.

Inside they make a quick dinner, for both are too tired for much cooking. As they wait for the water to boil or the toaster to warm, they sit on the couch and look at the cluttered apartment around them. There are coffee tables and stands covered with bills and mugs and magazines. The rubbery arms of a neglected plant sag over a pile of board games, as a last-ditch cry for life. Toe nail clippings and underwear lie on the floor. Today though, like yesterday, they're both too tired for cleaning.
The bright hope of tomorrow shines through at moments like this -- the day when they finally get that raise or position they've worked so hard for. Then there will be a two story house in a nice neighborhood, and perhaps a kid or two.
For now though, the apartment will do. It's cheap and it will help them get on their feet. They're still young.

Occasionally, one asks the other if they would like to go out for the night. Maybe Dante's, just down the road, or the movie theatre.
In this case the other responds: "Naw, not tonight babe. It's been a long day, and I'm just too tired."
So they snuggle on the couch and watch a movie instead. One of their favourites. Perhaps the feel-good Chocolat. The one were Johnny Depp -- an adventurous, french, riverboat pirate -- falls in love with the gypsy chocolate lady. During the movie, half the couple smiles and mumbles something when the cocoa-hating priest falls asleep in the chocolate display, and the other nods vacantly in return as he or she pokes at a cellphone.

The movie makes them warm. It takes them to the carefree and naive life of their past, when the next career move was being an actor, or an astronaut. But the city has a way of seeping into your home. It moves past the hum of the sound machine, and the drifting goldfish. It erodes through the stack of dusty records, which act as a sort of barricade, trying to hold the wall up from the things outside. All the books and GI Joe collections in the world can't stop the City.

So they croak out of bed the next morning, grab some toast, don their sharp attire, and drift out the door and into the cracks and crevices of the concrete. They scatter and dart over each other, like courageous black ants, and disappear into the ground.

Lúthien

Perhaps it was the protruding veins on her hands, or the unresistant fate of her predicament, but a quiet hatred stirred in her feebleness. It was a kind of stew that bubbled on the stove, unstirred, so the brittle meat and rotten peas were left unsuspected between straight lips and crossed ankles.
The wooden box rested on the shelf beside an ivory elephant and ancient teacups. Its factory wood glowed bright as plastic grass sat inside. Each strand was perfectly spaced, perfectly level, perfectly straight, perfectly green. The 8x5 grass patch had remained that way for years. Thankfully though, it grew blurrier and blurrier everyday -- at least from the chair where she sat.

The grass was more than her enemy, it was also her need.
Her lover from a wild night.
Her victory, as well as her death.
A final fling with passion, eclipsed with a smoking barrel roll.

Decay is foreign only to grass that is plastic.

Flowing Garden (Part II)

I put down my spade and looked into the dirt. I saw movement there. Perhaps a bug? I leaned over more and more -- searching. I went past the grass blades. I went beyond the flat, brown masquerade as crumbly mountains and valleys drew near. Closer and closer I ventured.

Until I fell in.

now
as my pen dances
this very

moment
is gone
forever

but here you are
with these
words

Clouds

I heard the song and grabbed hold of a note
Over dust land, fossil town, mossy tree
Like a dandelion seed I will float
Into the waters of the Ancient Sea

Sonnet

Silver coated spoons and glistening pots,
Stand tall in the kitchen, lined row by row.
Treasured stuffed birds and Huckleberry tops,
Bask in the fire's ethereal glow.

Just a candle I am, droopy and marred,
Homely and stuck to a crude wooden bowl.
Hidden in the corner where Shadows guard,
A hidden fixture and a melted soul.

But I know I'll exist when you come near,
For I am yours! I am for your desire!
You are a warming glow-- the Shadow's fear,
You are the One, you are this candle's fire!

Soaring Great Eagle, and Delicate Dove,
Sweet Warming Wine, immense ocean Love.