SNOW COVERS A CONCRETE SIDEWALK
SIMPLY TEARS IN A VOID ...
By: W. Jude Aher
I stood do the edge of a field, lost in a small cluster of trees, or bushes small. Or vines wrapped to themselves in the fashion of reason; with spring its season. Yet maybe a city or more was it? Locked to myself against a concrete crevasse, eyes wandering in a hairís fashion over mountains of silent stone rubble. Stumbling down she doesn't turn around but whines inside cursing her ride, whose middle she can never escape. Waves of heat don't relate as fate wonders on illusion, or the delusion of perfectionism. Do pigeons crackle with an eagleís eye as they weave with trash wind motivated on blistering streets. Movement or where is the sky anymore, and buildings who mumble malicious revisions against any view, or who might dream. A scream etches the air in the middle of day. My eyes blink yet still silence and nothing retains their owning pace. Across a blackboard a teacher still begins to erase silly questions a child needn't face; Can't!
Sunsets never known can't hold their motion in trace against, skylines brick sewn. My feet are sweating why. Is there time before tomorrow or is the vampire now ready to die. Woman screams to try and while, hides her gold stared cross. Lost or merely waiting tight against the skin of swelled breasts. Less then yesterday she rolls her eyes, for sleep she doesn't want. While the front of today isn't seen but is never the less carved away. Pay me in leaves, so what might I believe. Still, you'll own a place in my bed; what is what she has never said. I believe the oven is done, shall we leave the oven on.
Sweat takes my eyes and burns them in moments between sleep. Scenes almost escape but they fade too soon.
Large windows on a city train travels between eyes leaning into nowhere and the sky. Gray in motion hanging thick before itís own dream of sky floods. The edge of, never quite, lie haunting in the corners of ears and sighs. Pickled flesh is packed in metal boxes where they never might mesh, in the acceptance of where they are. While with too much force these faces must, as they hide between the stops of their rides. Somewhere inside, nothing hides nor can be seen in its rage or upon the stage of wordless dreamís broken. Something is spoken, so the faces in too many of few lean their voices higher and in pitch. Rich in wanting, but.
She sits between a window and an empty faced man. Her face supposedly scanned, which is the illusion takers of a long day, who also began in equal stay. With its self, only with inches more perfection. Make-up stains her face for youth, and fails while sweat not yet clear of her pores, takes its place, among the trace lines of who she is. Between pillars of people across the line of safe, along another side of that train, lie the eyes of a man who is something more. They pass her and stop, and too strong remember to see her in a moment. Who reaches for a broken dream between her magazine and the eternal in repression, scream. She tries in remembering so hard not to allow her eyes to hold in seeing him, while passing close, and again, and again. And her stop doesn't come to relieve her, offering its when, of nothing again, of more but with bends.
Her face without expression, expresses more. Dares she believe that anything might leave her as she sits there wanting so alone, because she doesn't. In a moment, her release was in touch across the sexual fashion of a man lingering on in the soft excess of seemingly perfected achievement. Turns vent. Fear of the faces she doesn't want, and won't refrain from their more then private existence, irritate her body long into the holding of her control. Turns vent. Maybe tomorrow, but maybe not. What does she want, him? No. But yes. For a moment she couldn't guess, and those eyes won't leave her alone. She stares for only a moment to find him leaning far away into a windowís eternal distance. Yet as if from nowhere he turns to see her. Startled she returns to herself and not quite. Hard still trying not to remember. Turns vent. Tears don't quite reach her eyes from inside. Almost thinking of something the train jerks in a timed suddenness. Turns vent. She smiles in an almost hungry manner. Her lips move to themselves, with her tongue moving restless through forged openings. The air within the train grows close, till she begins to feel her own sweat, rolling in awareness down her breasts. Her eyes leave the lying magazine, to roam out across this day spread out for her delight. But it is a rusted train with voided faces who cross her debate with wanting. She tries to remember someoneís eyes, but merely finds herself going home, going home alone again.
The night isn't quite late yet, and her drinking is still young. There is a man talking to her from the side. She doesn't care to hide though he doesn't birth her any wanting inside. Music matches the noise of the crowded voices. Yet itís rhythm is a tempo slow. Too slow, and the box begins to grow. Though drink saves thought from those who might think.
A chair empties and then fills. A woman giggles and then leaves into those aching hands of her man. She dreams his body for a lost moment. She falls into tomorrow or the echoes of yesterday burnt. Refocuses to find them gone, that still everyday couple. She then turns to take his drink, to find herself taking also his hand. He feels old in sweat, from a scratching in his pants which is slowly wet. The night grows old. She forgets even that she can leave, begins to weave, and finds herself closer still to this dark haired male body swelling silently in its own overindulged want. Doesn't turn away but stays. Words are harried and poorly played, while the fog rolls. Her body sweats, feeling itself there. She turns to play in his hair dark below the edge of the bar. His words almost stumble, though he remains the same. Today is tomorrowís forgotten name and the game is she, is now.
His car while taking her home stops into a shadow on a blackened edge
of her street. Keys turn and the motor dies. She doesnít wait for his him arm to reach behind her. She falls to him, letting him kiss, but moving on her own for sin. And when he tries to peal her down for the placement of his urges down, she holds solid. Demands a kiss, wetting her lips cold and hungry. She cares to feel ill, or is her stomach growing numb. He plays or wants into a struggle silent for ownership over this moment where flesh demands its pound. She is rock heavy as she fights her lips down. Locking him and his half naked knees till orgasm defeats his sound.
Silence, and never?
I sit within this room upon a rug, who holds my body easily against a hard stone floor. Sitting in the quiet of where. Hair which is mine lies swept down across my shoulders in a moment of never unseen. These walls stand upon pictures drawn hard in their deep speaking colors in line. Memories know the scenes, but are they mine. What time holds them and how far away am I; or is distance just a concept to play with reeling finds. Nothing minds while a clear fog rolls the air eluding the touch of almost anything there. Something hasn't died but where are the tries skipping their stones in echoes across water, upon water. Quarter your trace and is there anything left to face in the corners of your mind. A clock ticks of time and then stops. Skin is worn alone, and no moments are sewn.
Funny, my typewriter is, sitting there over on that strangerís wooden table. Words wait on the edge of itís tongue, waiting to just speak or die. A page lies half written, as a scene half lived. There are tears holding on to the edge of speaking, of themselves in a cross of screams through my skin. But nothing continues to begin, for I sit hard with no how to move. Moments are close but not quite near. I feel a knife lying across my thoughts; yet what a strange word is fear.
Her face is also clear, or someone I seem to know is there. Eyes hold open in touch of her sight. The light is quiet or held equal to the dark of night. And lies cold and hard with the wind just beyond a window, somehow almost open. Naked between the shadows, her body is long and smooth. It is living tight against her skin, complete through the yearning of our touch, through bare moments before her face holds me through the side of her glance. There is a chance, but she doesn't move for any turn. Knowing here was the climax of her yearning. Hearing the weariness across my strength, feeling solid hands fingering her hands with music an easy command, she simply allows the sand to roll around us. I don't know to touch her or to retreat.
Love might know the thickness of her hair leaning with the bend of her nakedness. Color doesn't scream or cry, but holds soft within shadows. Her breasts are physical as they hold solid upon her chest. Their yearning is gone yet they seem never to have left my hands. Commands no longer come or go. I don't move on the woman who is there, but know her. For corners breathe down upon my back.
Strawberry Blonde in cry of color unseen, hair through my fingers felt through to this woman as she falls easily into sleep upon my naked chest. Breathing eases as moments slowly come to rest. And I lie there long within a shadow. Things swirl and crawl in the air. Through the corners of my eyes I almost see something there. But again, just almost again. Voices who come too often to speak to me, still leave their words lying unformed in the air. Back below my skin I begin to prowl. And with each step, unknown corners inch closer.
I ride this train, forgetting in its eternal movement, of any going. I remember a women of whom I'm soon to see. But who is she through the window of this train? Troubled by a sky of never quite dark in grey clouds. The calls of autumn ride while spring tries singing hope through the eyes of the many faces crowding this train. I stare hard at one or another, but nothing comes again. Tomorrow isn't when, for ever long am I here.
Doors open upon a stopped train, and faces enter but never again? A woman or child in female grown form. She sits across and alone. And I am touched by her seeing me as she turns away. She doesn't stop seeing or turn back again. Strange creature or silly form. Alive or a tare on a body worn. How old does her youth seem to be, not grown but broken. Make-up paints a face adding to her illusion in real of age. Her stage isn't set, and yet she acts never the less. Moments in an eternal continuation of change move across her eyes. Everything comes but nothing remains. Rain still doesn't fall upon the window of the train, which seems to know or demand for itself where the sky isn't quite, to match itís wanting refrain.
I sit far across the room wrapped small in myself against the corner. Iím watching nothing while watching her sleep. Wanting her to speak. Wanting her to wake and come to me. Feeling the rage of a sun burning in my hand, and yet she sleeps and I sit there breaking in a corner. Taking the corner. Almost on the corner of my ear do I hear someone, someone hearing me and laughing so quietly that I can barely hear. Pen in hand I search wantingly, for a poem to take command. How long since I've broken through my own commands to take the sand of my onlyness and rake an ocean. To lean for the moon and freedom, with no care giving me all care to be. But I can't quite see in this black shadowed corner. I rise to please, yet how does this woman squeeze me too hard into who I am. Or room to roam. Who with myself have I sewn.
A Break in here, a moment comes clear and holds nothing, but me. Something still waiting, and am I still to be. I see Love, I see me, I see this woman, and all across the pages of a story unwritten, as never written. Hold! Break! Colored stakes tie me down to the ground of a trying to take eternity free and place all into me. Break. I'm taking someone where they can't be when already in the rhyme of anywhere, she is. Break. A corner of my self is shaking me down. Ground which holds no sound. Break. I laugh and turn around. And turn around, for do I hear someone laughing. Black dressed form in the distance is the hold of a pieced whole; but I wander on as here. Break. Is something clear? What edges might lock as if nothing is clear. Need unseen and nothing clean. A void rejected when a void is here. I'm tired. Am I too tired of taking myself clear. Break. Woman breathes here when she is there and not. Break. Watch the Break. Break. Turn through the door. Don't leave her or yet, unless she is gone. Take a moment for where you are. I say take a moment for where you are.
As this woman sleeps, I turn to my typewritter, speaking almost retreating, catching the woman in the corner of my eye. Words stand hard of the edge of I. Or why. No questions, but the sky. No rain unless the rain falls. Someone is calling. Who am I in the refrain of someone. Just I ... Typing sticks till words rage free,
in the like of,
bagged in marked hand
walking through wintered city streets
a lost man am i
while sighing never for the
something stained once,
tried , but couldn't remain
a concrete sidewalk
leaning tired eyes
the mouth chews
the body smiles
and nothing more ?
a ride across water
for a nickel ,
such an easy exchange for
locations come almost while they go
as islands - held clear
before the horizon
but - safe in their distance
never quite to reach -
are not tries -
while storms - of winter
lie between themselves ,
waves tear liquid cold
in bold slap against this
toy - travelers Ė shipís bow -
and somehow -
he doesn't see the
waiting upon his freedom
in here, yet-to-be-
A dream smiles sad, while a man doesn't smile at all. But he comes alive to the call of himself. He walks over and kisses her in her silence or sleep. Doesn't want to wake her or take her, but lies down upon her sheets and holds her nakedness long into the night. Break. He doesn't rise to leave her.
Watching his feet walk alone across concrete, he thinks of her and sees her or will he ever again. Cars come and go on paved streets, passing through the light of lamps, stamping themselves only between seconds. He hears a child squirm in itís mothers arms, but doesn't turn. He hears his woman wake somewhere so close or maybe just too far away, but still doesn't turn. Tomorrow burns harder unseen and he walks even faster on. From shadow to shadow does his reflection burn. Traces etched upon frozen earth, so quickly never to melt away. He laughs into his cupped hands and turns away. While through the corner of his eye, does he see the remains of tears there upon his palms. Arms fail to no avail while his legs continue to move on.
A Poem lies written behind his mind. It ends with itís title burning in the wind. Would he face his own end. Who would begin. Who stays. Who plays into... Break.
From a corner comes laughter he doesn't hear.
I stop watching this street crumble beneath me. And while I turn away, still do I see, everything but me, or is it just me. A Sword breaks in metal somewhere dark beneath, in the between of myself and I.
Is there anyone left to watch my feet. Hey, typewriter, how do you spell retreat. What? Someone can no longer hear. Someone cries why; simply tears in a void.
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