The Spray Of Falling Away

yoru awakens one morning to find that he is missing.
he pursues his routine to trail where he went.
but where there were sprouting words there is silence.
clues everywhere as to his passing,
but yoru’s breath is gone, left fingering his theories,
plots of bitterness to blame the darkness.

we stood, Tubber and I, with the symphonic sky spread before us, the clouds bathed in the colors of sunset, the moon a distant sliver glowing.
“i cannot shake the indescribable sense that this is beyond me,” Tubber states, hands clasped behind his back, “that i cannot possibly appreciate this unique and singular death of the day, for it is yet the same.”
I stroke my sideburn fuzz. “But if it were a video game, and you could guide a mythical character through this land, you would marvel at these same skies, stop to admire the majesty of creation. it is too big, too apart from our breathing cusp of life here.”
“and yet inseparable,” Tubber adds, “it is so far and yet so much a part of us, such that we cannot grasp its entirety, can only sense the shadow of its wonder, and yet continue living without.”

the dark masses that gravitate space outward, forever tearing at the spinning center. the people, gathered about televisions, huddled in speeding cars listening to radios, wires spun across the earth to catch their voices together. no one can escape.

horatio awoke to the sound of another day breaking into continuance, into reality, into this-is-something-we’ve-seen-before-and-will-soon-forget. and the lines of repetitive muscled movement trailed into soft always forming skin. all this and more and so much less, because everything is reduced to understand to sell. but suddenly her eyes soft and wanting, transforming everything into her raw existence, her shattering warmth. and gods come out to play in the fields of trivial imperfection, the everyday the eternal
the momentary drama of a chosen space to drop. the golden crashing and crackling snapping over the anchor of the kick drum.


the lights of the pier rose up waveringly along the whitened curves of the boats. i could see the little peach hairs on jessica’s outlined nose.
there was that silence, where i wanted to say everything, and knew that it would fall forever short.

it is a day, a night, an alarmed cold wake, a color washed set. the lions basking in the sun on tv, pulling down prey; the pitbull on my couch, wiggling his jowls and snuffling; a mom herding her kids to school; an ambulance trucking swiftly into the corridored distance.

I woke up with my shirt all twisted half around my body, I hate that shit. Plus I had crust in the corners of my eyes that cut me when I tried to wipe them out. My mother was already up, as usual, doing her Yoga For Dummies workout in front of the TV in her biker’s outfit. She managed to emit an artificially cheery good-morning in between her panting attempts at deep breathing, which I answered with the swift cocking of my left leg to release a gust of stale pizza-sitting-all-night-in-my-stomach gas.
“Now focus on the flowing out from your lower belly. Imagine that you are a flower stalk and you are trying to garner water to open your petals for the day. Sucking the water up, sucking the water up. There, now open your petals to the sun. Open up your flower and breathe out that colorful life for the bees to see and come to pollenize you,” the TV said.
I filled up a glistening bowl with Lucky Charms and plopped myself onto the sofa, my morning smell settling around me. The chick doing the Yoga on the screen was kind of alluring in a middle-aged Asian mix kind of way.
“I’d like to pollenize her,” I said thoughtfully.
“Loopy!” my mother wheezed, struggling to keep her knees pressed to the carpet.
“Shut up ma.”
I managed to collect 5 marshmallows on my spoon at once. I love the way the milk gets all sweet and thick and the color of the cereal runs into it.

“it all goes smoothly until that one moment in your life when you lose your grasp on time, you focus too intently on one object, and you can’t see anything connected to it, only the object, shadowed, singular, and it becomes everything, and there is nothing left. and suddenly you are lost, and the world is moving apart from you as you watch, breath fogging into the glass.”
–Timothy Martin, inmate of Yellow Bay State Prison, death row.

It’s funny how when people need to reach out to someone the most, they end up hurting themselves and others. As if there’s some kind of pride to be taken in holding out to the end, as if there’s something commendable in it, heroic, as if there was strings swelling in the background and someone was sitting in the darkness and watching you, glowing, popcorn grease on their fingers, and you were everything, tragic, beautiful, and nothing anyone could ever be.

let me put it another way: there’s a whole world out there, columbus, that isn’t named, isn’t claimed, isn’t famed. and it’s all around you.
this is personal.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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