A Cliche

Blowing out the ghost of yesterday 

Singing about the quiet kiss of today 

Why is she swimming in the river today, considered I did, in the hot month of May, air stifled dead, but five or six months into the day she is swimming and praying alone and gay, quiet voice that had a say in every vowel of the day, swimming alone in the tub drinking rum and reading Bronte, paper stained gray from Aquas prey, why was she a fish, I couldn't say, even through the day I find Ray Bradbury pages stuck to the ceiling, even if for a year, getting lost sometimes on a pier in the drip of the hour, evening sun a faithful religious liar, a traitor of the moon and all that it luminous, lost lost almost alone but still with the moon, who has been lost forever and laughs even tho at the fact, waiting and waiting, going a whole day without painting, day without pay, eyes sprouting out of brains and pupils openings , no.no no no no.. Where is the black hole I heard it was opening on the news today waiting for the serials and commercials to coerce and commune and commence and laugh loudly! HA!

Springlike salty sour salts salted and salivated salutatory seasoned saucy spheres of spectacular serendipitous splendidness and inserted into the words were salacious scintillators and sorrows of pseudosexual scorpions, I laughed at everything but in a dripping reverie, and Oh, where is Roland, Roland has yet to come by to share a drink with us, it has been too long. Yes, I daresay. I don't want him to meet this girl tho, I'll have to leave the flat and meet him elsewhere, yes, elsewhere by the time the sorrows fall from the skies of morrow and laugh at the blue entire, giggling at your own laughter and your own awareness of the laughter and the fact of laughter and laughing and laughing and laughing at the moon and pointed with our distant optic finger, pointing and needing to know why the moon is so glorious in its own existence how and why when and who and where the secret door is up there, the door the entrance , myxomatosis furry rabbits frolicking and f*****g in the night as I walk around and rub my eyes and smoke out of my pipe and hold a kitchen knife for protection, a collections of weapons in my pockets and a bed on my back I wander thru the night and chase the breath of the moon wandering and wondering and glimpsing at reflections of myself in the river but it looks just like you. Nexting smiles of solar silence and toothless supernovas secreting natures formula, a seminal thunder erupts above her soil, copper zipper fallen and wires of sand and foam. 

Of golden rains north and smoky showers south I fall in an air of long lost recollection, a memory I will never find but have found on the ground covered in dirt and sod, moldy leafs cover the ground and I pain at the thought of broken solitude, a sex of gaseous breath and a death of diamonds dream stir about this fake delusion, accounts of skies and lies and crystal colored sassy eyes. 

One thing led to another and by the end of the bruised purple night we were chucking blind warted frogs across the muddy field. It was inhumane but it was better to realize that we were all not as humane as we would like to be. But like I said by the end of the night we were drunk off our heels, throwing frogs as far as we could. Roland did it without empathy, threw a laugh as he launched a frog, as if they were base balls we were tossing. Jacky and Johnny were with us too, alive as you can tell with their hearts beating and all, like speakers in the cage. 

Before this, the Jays' were at some street party next to the orchard and they said there were over a hundred people standing around the avenue. Alex Parker was talking to Jacky and they were trading drinks out of their bottles. Alex had two Crimson Jugs in his car, and as he was showing Jacky and Johnny the bottles, someone shouted that the cops were coming. Everyone panicked apparently and scattered. Alex couldn't leave because he couldn't find his girl. So he gave Jacky and Johnny the two Crimson Jugs and told them to hang on to it. Jacky and Johnny split like an atom and headed over to where me and Roland were, which was at the old grammar school on Ruth street. We were soaking in the moon and trading words about our permanent confusion when The Two Jays showed up with Alex Parkers jugs. We applauded their criminalist ways and cracked open a bottle. 

An hour later we were shirtless, racing each other, and throwing frogs under the moonlight. Alex Parker called Johnny and asked for the bottle back, but Johnny played it off by saying that this was the wrong Johnny he was talking to. Johnny ended up losing his phone in the midst of racing, and then Roland stepped on a frog and had to leave because he was sickened of the frog juice on his barefoot. We all split up then. I walked halfway to my house and realized with my own real eyes that my shirt was off, walked back to the school to search aimlessly for a shirt that just wasn't there anymore, simply swallowed by the mud or the night, futile attempts in the misty middle moon- suction pops of sneakers caked in mud piles, a gastric symphony of the soil--no shirt anywhere. I walk home in a shadows echo to my presumably unlocked front door, parents presumably asleep, but I then found the door to be locked; someone had locked it on my descent out of the house. 

I decided to just sleep on the trampoline where my sister broke her arm on five years ago. But the trampoline wasn't comfortable. I walked around the yard under the calming, blanketing consideration of the moon, found my dogs and caressed them while they were still alive, show them some meaning of love, prove to the dogs that I am still a human with the capacity for benevolence, kneeling in the grass to vomit fire and all the while think horribly of the frogs sailing thru the cold frigid night. Dog eats the vomit and then licks me but am too miserable to move. Go to fathers truck and try to sleep in the back seat. Can't. Impossible. Find a pocket knife, blades of night, cut a hole in my screen window and quietly sneak in onto my bed, a process that took about 25 minutes of slow silent slicing. I fell asleep finally and dreamed of inebriated frogs with whiskeyed skeletons. 

A tragic something led to another. I still had a couple things left to do but I decided to get some tea first because I was parched by the sand of this atmosphere. I met the grease head behind the back alley of the diner on third and he gave me a decent amount of purple tainted tea. I drive back across the street under the veil of orange and yellow leaves, on Roland's road, first street, or was it second? In the '33 Ford I waited for Roland to appear out of the mist. I twisted a thin tea strip and struck the sulfur stick, sucking the sound into the shell of tea. I decided to call him on his buzzer to see if his own cracked voice would strike the silver silence that grew ever so thicker in the hazy tea clouded cab of the '33. Six telegraphic beaded rings echoes like dropped metal marbles onto xylophones and no answer. Then my phone sounds. A digit. I revert the ring, a sound- a voice cracks, says "Aliens do exist if you ask me." Who the phucking phlame is this lame? I ask. Again. Twice. 

Giggles ensue into my chrome ear. I conjure up enough chromatic thoughts to crystallize into opaque vowels- spray it - cynicisms converted into systematic vibratory messages, the sounds register into the cochlea of this phucking phlame. 

"I am the phucking alien in this world, not even the birds can sail as I can in the skies, mother f****r." 

"Ducks can't fly frankly." 

"You know it." 

"The trick to reaching improbable possibilities is to remain in an oblivious state of consciousness." 

I guffawed. 

 "Hurry up this tea is fading into tangible clouds." 

The mirror laughed back at this statement. Roland heard it over the phone. Heydays erupt into paydays, my Johnny pepper. Spray some light into this world for once why dontcha? Trying to remain aloof in this noxious world. 

Finally Roland opens the door and gets in. He has a crimson cig in his ear and he's smoking another. He wraps the leather around his torso and locks it into the seat, being wary of my motor handling skills. 

"There's a storm coming can't you taste drip from the skies of October?" He tosses the red roach out the window as we sail past rusted stop signs. 

 I tried to laugh but instead coughed. "Ehemmmmm, the night is anxious with its rain. Stage its precipitations." Roland lights the cigarette in his ear and sucks it into his head via his curly-cued cochlear throat, exhales the vapor out of his eyes and laughs. "Once in a while there should be moments when the sun rains a little." 

"How is it that there are oceans of rains flooding Blatter bellied clouds and pissing out onto the valley below? How is it that the skies hold that much gray Aqua?" "It's Been holding in its sorrows for a long time." Roland hands me the Crimson cig, aflame and bleeding. I pull a puff soft as a pillow, fills my head with feathers, and I dissolve. 

 There salt stuck in my ears salt stuck in my loins there seeds stuck in my kidneys they're growing out like knives ha ha ha ha. Where do your fingers go at night ? What do you know of the circle theory? Circumstances of this circumstantial Cacophony of this of this Roland sent himself stanzas of sanctimonious sieves to sequester secrets as we speak, as we swim in Mars soup, as we site the terrestrial -- so I'll have questions - where does she live on the map of tranquility-- listening as we excavate around tomorrow -- I owned tomorrow...

A wave of tranquility washes me when I look at the moon. I think it is because I recall gazing at the moon in my previous life. Before I was me now I was me then, and everything on earth was different in structure, but the only thing that remained the same was the moon. I recollect recollections of lost reveries being transfixed in time under the moon. I recall looking at it with other eyes than the eyes growing out of my brain now. I recall the moon. I recollect rock collections of lunar rain. I recollect the reveries under the pale light. A cliche, but a reverie nonetheless.

Author's Note

NOtes from tomorrow

Reviews

[Gaston Villanueva]

Enthralling surrealism at its finest
I admired the preciseness of the beginning and enjoyed the plot of the second half
Well done Quinn