Constructive Cynicism

In cold, asomatous arms

embracing you

the ancestors sing

Hark! The herald

lying on silken sheets

like peaceful death.

Of a rugged beard

before vanishing in the depths,

itself in the sun

on the cheek, warming

teardrops that lie solid

like crystalline chandeliers.

Over your head

fireworks on the 4th of July

exploding like so many

shots of mortar fire.

like a parade.

In the northern heavens

that shimmer and shine

of gossamer

flashing through the curtain,

they whip behind them

their tails.

Raining hope on all the lifeless watchers

of the empty black void

racing across the boundless skies

like shooting stars.

In a planetary tango

as they spin around

like hand grasping hand

between them

purple nebula stretched.

Continents laughing

oceans splashing

around each other

like planets revolving.

Through the bay windows

in the sunlight

scattered on the floor bathing

Freeware space sim based on the new Battlestar Galactica. Jump into the cockpit of a Viper and defend the Twelve Colonies from the Cylon threat!

Desire from Afar

Sitting with a notepad, a sinking chair

surrounds me in rising

Cushions of cloth.

I watch as the people

float quietly past,

behind them the noises

of murmurs and keystrokes.

Scanning the library in

a subconscious effort,

my eyes alight on

a form of perfection.

Not books or racks

or anything of the sort.

But a form of two legs

Two arms,

A torso.

A face.

Too distracted to remember

my pad or my name

or speech or cognition.

Mind empty of anything

resembling thought.

Perhaps it’s her figure,

Those shapely legs, those soft, dark curls.

The way she reaches up

Toes on their tips,

As she gently slides the journals into place.

In fact, it couldn’t be

anything else, for what do I know

of her or her selfhood?

So how am I

Lost?

How am I

Gone?

With no desire

but that of

winning her

Attention?

Eyes cast down

reading the blank page that lies in my lap

as she passes unnoticing,

uncomprehending of my existence.

Mouth glued shut by

my own frozen mind,

I glance back up

Furtively, sparingly.

Hot flash.

Chills.

Tingling of bone and nerves

No butterflies,

but razor sharp needles that stab

at my stomach.

Yet I say nothing

for what would I say?

You don’t know me,

But I find life much fuller

I come walking up, black messenger bag hanging strongly from the fabric strap that aligns itself from shoulder to hip. My feet fall, one after the other, eager for the sweet escape of heat and entrance into the abyss of the refreshing air conditioned breeze that rushes to leave the building. As I make my way to the door, I hear the brassy sound of the Ball State Pep (maybe Marching?) Band roaring out the Cardinal's Fight Song. As they come into my view, I see Charlie Cardinal dancing, parading around as members of our illustrious football team hand out flyers promoting a "Pregame Bash". I still walk on, and as I approach, the band members take a respite from their blowing of instruments to quickly sing a round of the fight song that so fills the air of the stadium at every game.

I'm handed a flyer with a quick, "Here you go, man."

And as I take it, nodding politely and asking how they're doing, the player's friend next to him shouts a joyful, "Thanks a lot!" finger pointing at me in a gesture of appreciation.

I begin to walk inside Bracken, a pep - ha - in my step as the band once again takes up arms - or at least instruments - in support of their school, their team, their pride. The fight song blares out, and I walk up the steps, feeling like Rocky as he runs up that famed concrete flight in Philadelphia.