THE NOVEMBER THE TWENTIETH by Michael Burns
There’s a cat living in the steel culvert by my road. Canned kittens mew as I walk by…
The chemical cold, can you hear it? Crackles. Snow and ice, sky and trees; even the cat, all made by the same painters hand. Winter is a frigid, and darkly muted hell here…
They make the weather, right here in this spot…above my head.
This existential wreck I’ve become…
this cold heart, this runaway artist.
“Today! I say…” again, for the umpteenth time.
but I know before the words leave my mouth, and hit the floor.
I am a liar. But Dominique’s son left for China today, and she still drew a sketch anyway.
I like Dominique. And smudgy rubbings, a lady in electric pink, with a cloud on her head.
I miss my life…
the other one, the one I had, before I woke here; not this one, the other one, were I make grand things and feel grand things, and speak…
and my pen is divinely blessed, and the ink flows and falls from that golden nib, onto my page white as the outside, surrounding that suffering cat… and lines cross and meet others on the way to the edge of the page. A long drawn sentence of no color, no adjectives…no smell, forgotten life falling out of an opened closet door as a clutter
It seems your rise early.
Think your thoughts and place them in an electric envelope, and I believe your speaking to me. “Are you talking to me?”
I promised myself I wouldn’t come here anymore, it’s part of the problem.
Or maybe I’m part of the problem? Maybe your the problem?
You the mystical messenger, yelling your words down a plastic sewer pipe, to me the revenant in this Bardo. Wondering were the voices are coming from.
Illusion and grand illusion. The whole thing is a joke, a big cosmic joke and, you and me sitting in the audience surrounded by this…pretentious laughter.
And french nonsense.
Ah, the fake light, cracks through and splitting the slats, in my window blind.
It’s still early…”Maybe today.”
whatever that means.