The stick sings as it slashes through the air. The promising cut flies passing the machine that strands all that data in digital netherland. I stare yearning for light in the darkness. My mind’s journey talks to me pitching ways to get even with technology.
Voices become unhinged, bruising my listening ears. Vision fails to match what aches could push nerves to their edges. Nails on chalkboard could never blossom in such a manner. I wish I could remember numb or savor the quiet again.
Sadly the remote is lost
The sliver of chain shines. Her face wears disdain by design, while the rest of her dresses to the nines. Secretly, some feign shock but jealousy trains some for the crime afoot.
“My god.. ..she’s not breathing!” Someone tells. The reception grinds to a halt.
My hand skims the turbulent surface of Lake August. The electric motor whines as the minutes slide from the clock. My heart races. My cargo needs hiding. Daylight doesn’t creeps in to my view, revealing a tiny shed in a rugged lawn.
Who knew too much lust and a pillow could end this way.
I pass the old black tower alone. The late Sun rays tell my presences. My shot at passing without being called upon seems to fade. I fiddle eighth my hands. Thoughts of becoming a treat for the legendary dragon named Honey harms my spirits.
“The spirit listens. What you breathe and what writing you place upon the sacred Earth matters.” Black Bear looks away as he talks following a cloud with his eyes. “Prosper is not an act. It dulls senses. Slowly, it digs through your years leaving holes.”
“So do I put this piece of malachite on Ebay or not?” Jessica looks at her Grandfather. Her vision of a few dollars rapidly disappears.
I’m hiding in a close black corner called home. I belong here were I was put. I skip the laugh to be invisible.
And you call me a cardboard cutout.
I remember. The first steamy kiss. Some scene played out on a anonymous screen. My hand lifting curls off your neck. My mind whizzing about when to hit those lips. I tried to spin slowly to whisper something. Your laughing when my pass at passion hit a snag. Your offering me a drink turning into a sticky mess.
But I think of this when you tell me to explain relations to our child.
Charm slides away as if rinsed by unseen rain. I see the crowd mingling by what should be startling. They filter blame, calling names trying to bite of the limbs of victims. Slowly they crawl back to the shadows dismayed by the limits on others attention.
A small cringe closes upon me. Like a wild wolf cajoling me, your practice of heaping praise seems more than kind. My eyes close to hide the blight called twisted love.