Friday, July 06, 2007

Camelsbackandforth: Who To Ask?

(I don't know what Allan has been taking but I am sure enjoying the literary traces/trails ...)

Who To Ask?

Grey metal door. Push the horizontal bar to exit.
No exit.

Exit to where? Anywhere but here, I think , because I don't know where here is.
It's indoors.
My good dreams are always out-of-doors.
I am in-of-doors.
The door.
I am in it.
Push it to not exit.
Goddamn it. I try to kick it, but I don't have enough control, my legs aren't connected.

Push it and it becomes a pinball machine. Silver streaks and yellow flags spinning, strobe lights in the bumpers going crazy; multi-ball action; target scores 'Special' when lit and the machine cracks like a starter pistol, K-POW!
Free game.
When is a door not a pinball machine?
It's ajar, then open.

It's gone and I'm on a large grassy field. I recognize this place.
It's a sort of gigantic outdoor horseshoe-shaped amphitheatre, with a beach and ocean at the top of the 'U' and a surrounding series of hills and steep, cutback-trail cliffs providing enough sitting and standing room for the population of a small city. It's currently deserted.

This is the first time I have ever been on the field, I'm usually up there, on the cliffs, watching the show with my friends, real and imaginary.
My friends are not here. No one is here.
There is no show. No audience.
There's usually a stage set up on the beach's far end. It is not there.
There's usually an ocean beyond the beach, but it isn't there either.
There's nothing but sand.

If there is a horizon, I can't see it from here.
When awake, we tend to take the horizon for granted.
Here it's a luxury.

The only thing missing is a sun-bleached cattle skull, I think, and suddenly a skull appears.
I cannot determine far away it is because it's difficult to gauge distance without a horizon. It has a sense of bigness to it, at least the size of a tall building and it's human-shaped, not bovine.
The cranium is distended and warped, like a Dali canvas viewed in a carnival mirror designed by H.R. Giger.
It ripples like water.

I wish that it would go away.

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Anonymous said...

what a great poem!!!

Michael said...

I agree Idealist...