Two Brief Spur-of-the-moment Vignettes

Wish You Were Here
The earthy aroma of a stale cigarette hung in the air, battling the cloying greasy scent of cheap Chinese take out. I kicked a foot out, scattering Styrofoam trays covered in greasy sauce, and gently lowered my leg onto the small empty strip cleared off the cluttered table. I exhaled and watched a stream of smoke disappear into the light. From somewhere behind me a cheap stereo asked, “So, so you think you can tell heaven from hell?”

My foot was starting to fall asleep. I awkwardly swung it off the table, cleaning off another large swath of varnished wood at the expense of the crappy rug underneath, and leaned forward. The cigarette was automatically raised to my mouth. Take a drag. Exhale a small cloud. I wondered if it were possible to make rain from tobacco smoke. Everything was drenched in sauce and liquor and futility anyways. A tiny concentrated storm would either wash it all away or pound it into a soaking indistinct mess.

I hung my head over the cigarette smoking like a funeral pyre.

“How I wish, how I wish you were here.”

Snow
Outside the snow is falling sideways. I'm sitting at a beat up, marked up, fucked up desk, a hot cup of steaming coffee next to me perfumes the air, and as my restless fingers beat a tattoo upon the gaudy monstrosity that is my oversized keyboard, I'm staring out the window at the snow that is flying horizontally by.

The desk is blanketed with white shit; paperwork and my works on paper. It's piled high, and every time I look up I'm briefly amused by what appears to be a mountain range at eye level. I lean back and put one knee up between me and the desk, resting in that position. A deep sigh is heaved. One hand leaves its post atop my ridiculous gaming keyboard replete with useless functions and shining lights to cradle a drooping forehead. Everything becomes a strange swirl of colors and shapes before a deep blackness. I hold this position for a while, my cold fingers resting lightly on my temple, the warmth of my palm putting my weary eyes to rest, and relish the peaceful darkness.

The strange, almost wobbly fluttering of a single sheet of paper falling shakes me out of my reverie. I lift my eyes to watch the avalanche descend. It's slow at first; everything moves into position in preparation for the chaos that will follow. And then it all comes crashing down at once.

Maybe god knows how long it takes for me to resort everything and put it all together, but I sure as hell don't; I just pick it all up and shoved it back into shelves and crevices at random. Chances are I'll never look at them anyways. The mountains will just grow bigger and bigger as time goes on and every so often there'll come another avalanche just so that I don't forget that they're there. I look out at the snow. It's still falling, and still falling sideways. I open my window to stick my head out and maybe see where it's all going.

Papers fly everywhere, borne aloft by a frigid wind. Snow and bitter cold assail me. Before I close my eyes against the stinging and the window against the whole of winter, I see the snowflakes spinning in wide circles. I realize that they were just flying around and around outside my window the entire time. They never left that small space right outside, and I don't expect them to until the wind dies down and they melt upon my sill.

Later, as I'm sitting around a crowded table full of friends, I remember the feeling of snowflakes gently touching my face amidst the gusting winter wind and shiver.

The Sun Sets Over the Morning

The sun sets over the morning rush.
Betrayed by where we were once welcome,
We are all alike, in this way flushed.

Painting storms with a decaying brush
Obscuring strokes with a hasty thumb,
The sun sets over the morning rush.

The dam once broken will always gush
Till, nearly drowned, we at last grow dumb
We are all alike, in this way flushed.

Night becomes day, cries the singing thrush,
Our own ringing songs have left us numb;
The sun sets over the morning rush.

Our silent harvest grows ever lush
As we wonder what it may become,
We are all alike, in this way flushed.

The most simple word will find me crushed
As I wait in fear for what may come
The sun sets over the morning rush.
We are all alike, in this way flushed.

What Dreams May Come

The infinite extends before me,
Ancient yet timeless, old like the stars -
Like the shapes within flickering flames,
And the perfumed scent after it rains -
The inscrutable rhythms of all
the pristine verses, my night time dreams,
Tantalizingly intangible.
These essences of words unwritten,
More real unsaid for all the base tongues
For so much is lost in blust'ring lungs.

Before the canvas of time and space,
Like the life of impermanent Man
Held fast against the countless eons,
These brief poems flicker and are gone,
Each one like a candle burning bright
Only to trail smoke into the night.
Brief player, listen to these shadows,
Listen closely to what dreams may come
For they are dreamt for you,
And you alone.