Poetry: When i Must Take Leave of You

Pink Tiles (super-short story)

     Every time I go into this tomb of a bathroom, I cringe.  It is cold in the bathroom in the winter.  But that is not what makes it so unpleasant.  The water periodically turns ice-cold; however that is also not what makes it so unpleasant.  The bathroom is small and inconvenient, and the boys always miss.  The sides of the toilet and the floor around it always have to be cleansed of that urine and odor.  The faucet is incessantly dripping, no matter who or how many times it is fixed.  But I don’t mind any of that at all. The sole reason I hate this bathroom is the pink tiles.  They are ugly pink “project” tiles.  There is no glow to them, they aren’t bright, hot or even pastel; pastel I probably could deal with.  No, these tiles are dull, dusty, dirty-pink tiles; that’s what they are.  And I am stuck with them.

           Everyone has left for the day for work and to school.  I was to be the last person to leave the house.  But I couldn’t leave right now if I wanted to, because I am stuck here for the duration, stuck on the ugly, ominously slippery, pink tiles.  My husband works all day, and he has been taking overtime; my children go to after-school programs.  So, as I said, I am here for a while.  And these tiles are enough to drive a person screwy. 

     I was getting out of the shower when the next thing I knew wham, down I fell like a sack of fucking potatoes.  I must have hit the back of my neck on that stupid marble waste basket I splurged on, to try to make the bathroom more pleasant; or maybe I hit my head on the corner of the wall.  It feels like the gloomy pink is seeping down and into my neck.   My legs are immovable, like the tiles in this room.  No matter how hard I think, I cannot get them to move.  I am able to move my arms with great difficulty; but if I only could still manage to pull that shower curtain and block those wall tiles.  I want to stop them from mocking me.  They are also as dusty pink as the floor tiles, and they are dancing for joy at my plight.  There are some places were the grout is thinner than other areas.  Some of the grout has the beginning signs of mold. It is time to bleach the walls again.  If I squint, the mold patterns look like tiny eyes peeping through: grout, mold, grout, mold, grout, mold, mold grout.  And when I follow the grout with my eyes, the tiles really do dance.

     Thirty-six floor tiles, yep thirty-six of ‘em, but the ones on the edge were half tiles.  Damn, this is a small bathroom.  Then there is a count of five hundred and twenty–six smaller bath tiles.  The least they could have done was to throw in a white one every now and then to break up the monotony of it all, the cheap bastards.

     Look at that! Even the friggin’ roach, who stumbled upon the pink puddle quite by accident, is scurrying to get away from it as fast as it can.  What a smart bug!  Not me, too much in a hurry to put back the bathroom rugs.  And because of this putrid pink atrocity of a floor, I am forced to spend my day surrounded by the color of sick, sarcastic laughter.  

     The floor tile is even preventing the puddle I am lying in from drying up.  What malice the little tile bastards’ show!  What did I ever do to these hideous tiles? Why do they weigh me down so?  The oppressive pinkness of it all makes me dizzy.

     I must have been here for hours now.  The light from the small window is dwindling.  After all, it gets darker earlier in the winter.  Someone should be coming home soon.  I’m certain that I shouldn’t sleep.  But I am tired now; maybe  … if ...  I…  just … rest…  my …eyes…

It Is My Thought

It is my thought that if I imagined

                          the moon with swirling initials carved or burned

                                                           into them it would be quite enough

As the moon beams shined through manicured un-forests 

                              onto me, while

                                                   i walked, or ran, or jogged, or skipped, or twirled while no one was looking, and that 

            my essence was enough as it wafted up and out after

        a long walk, or run, or jog, or skip, or bout of twirling

down the Boulevard, 

         on a beautiful night, 

                       under the trees, 

                              out in the fresh air,

                                       past all of the playfully bounding rabbits,

                                              that disappear down their holes.

                        It is my thought that the simple fact that my love of oddities,

                                 esoteric nuances, our connection, and especially you, 

             would sustain on even the most unbalanced of days---

It is my thought that i want it to; 

           i am not sure i am good, adequate, or worthy enough; but,

                i don't need anyone's sanctioning for what ever this is;

                                                     for whatever we want this to be; or to become.

My life has turned into many walks, runs, jogs, and skips . . . 
                         Learning to twirl is what unstained the insufferable...
                                                    and in doing so has re-sustained my secret self.

 It is my thought that twirling is the most fun, and the most mischievously beneficial to my essence & to my soul...
                                                    Yet, it is not my soul i concern myself with...
Have i touched yours?
     and this evening i am churning with emotion as my soul continues twirling
like a top in full inertia.
We all know what happens when we twirl too much...
                          Will you catch me? i don't really want you to...

It is my thought that we will playfully tumble together down the rabbit hole.

         

Dead Echoes

As a cloud of joy and Euphoria
           Dissipates into nothingness,
i no longer wonder how to begin to tell you, and
Dead echoes of silent possibilities
       Begin to inhabit my mind and deafen my soul.

On a whim,
          You ask if I am alright
                    --I skirt around the truth--

Darkness revisits
      and walks with me a while;
Laughing with me as if we are old friends,
And,
Diabolically, laughing at me as if we were old rivals,
--mine is a nervous laugh--

Darkness and i,
            have been through much together, the
Candor does not bother me as it should.
The shadow of disbelief is pushing me over
           The threshold of numbness, with naught but
Darkness by my side.

There is no aggrandization,
There is not a single smile that is real today,
There is no nothing, save for bewilderment
Among the dead echoes;
...this existence is simply gone.

Ambushed

As I am distracted by millions of worlds,
Which, are viewable from within your eyes,

              up
Floating         from your heart

                          As my heart was being absorbed by you!
I could never have imagined
This emotion could develop within
                                                     one breath...
Ambushed
                                                           

Existence

Not so very suddenly,
But still,
            are we so brazen as to pretend
We do not REALLY know it is coming?

An intake of breath;
Resisting death
       Until the end.
A look,
       Up.
A hesitation held,
Based on a virtuous vow;
Then,
The last breath;
Before the advancement of unmitigated sleep,
His being Embroidered back into beyond.
A virtuous man has waned
                   into the other side;
And yet -- we cry!

Do we not know a thing?

       His magic does not die out.
There is harmony in his change,
As he dissipates into the sacred landscape,
Let us be silent,
             Let us be calm,
                    Let us be collectively unfrenzied.
Celebrate his escape from this strange dream,
Into his next existence;

And, those that knew him
Know that this loss of life
WILL not promote loss of meaning.

Mists

You penetrated,
 Through the thickest,
    Most protective mists, 
      With which I surrounded myself, and
         They, have now dissipated back to Avalon’s bonnie shores.

You pulled me through isolation and darkness, 
  To your beautifully hidden universe,
     My heart now runs rich,
         On the promise of potential,
            Flowing deepest far past the shallows of my soul, and
              Shooting like a Excalibur to the surface of this lady’s lake.

The power of your intentions is BIGGER than you realize,
  Do you want what you’re asking for?
   And as you begin to tear away,
     Out of terror?
       Or out of excitement?
         Or out some enigmatic emotion?
           I        begin      to      be     torn       apart.