Ode To Elise

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              Wait. I’m sure you’ve seen this day before, or at least it resembles that of a day you’ve seen before. Stir up, sit up, the silken scarves that knot your ankles and wrists begin to loosen as you begin to realize where exactly you are, who exactly you’ve become, how exactly you’ve get there – or at least an idea of how. And just as it always has been, the dreams of birds and docks and monsters begin to drip from your raw mind and onto the floor, and the slant of our house rolls the dreams under your bed. By now surely you’ve forgotten all about their seductive attraction, the pull, hints and clues disguised behind the actions of someone you think you might know; pulling onions with an office lamp you swear was broken months earlier by a co-worker.

                              Dimensionless your last pair of blue jeans, robbed of form and warmth, lie skinned on the wooden floor.  Shadows of the early night before remain painted on your wall, places and cracks where lights lazy mind has failed to animate. You rise before the sun, the sun collapses before you. And now you must raise the tower. Slumped to one side your bed (your temple), your feet touch to cold foundation the floor, and with a lunge you become to largest free standing structure in the entire Town.

                                        On the other side, another cave, you pass a knight sleeping drunk, protector of the intangible. Scars of conflict litter the living room, the walls, the floors, kitchen sinks, punched out cups, kicked down glasses, rotten tomatoes. There wasn’t even time to think about breakfast.


II.


         With all your momentum, vastness, complexity, your feet still stop when they reach the floor, all around the cement carpets line cement swimming pools lead to a billion different directions. You know where you are. Sewn into everything and everyone, cool colours and thread created in the molten mood of the sun. Reflective and brilliantly benevolent, amidst your travel the steele and mirror castle wakes as late as the sun. Crisp figures of surrounding sky stand motionless around a motionful city. You know exactly where you are.

                   By your hand you turn the wheel, by your mind your make the mortal, and very moral law, by your eyes you seek the truth, by your actions you bake the bread. And still the sun refuses its purpose. Lost in thought, and slow to start, you swear you can smell the branches of olive trees, pungent and fruitful; you disguise the carbon burning all around you as a sign of good things to come. Drawing nearer and nearer with a swung wide open door to greet them, with heap fully large celebratory bowls of convenient things, and things made of plastics, and glass jars dense with smoke. You stop a moment to capture a moment of the reality of the morning commute. This is shit.

III.

         I am sure I’ve seen this day before. Every word thought becomes another step away from my dreams, as the memories of a bottle – a battle shatter in my mind. The strangest of ideas, like someone I think I might know pulling up onions with a broken lamp. Intangible, I remember my sworn duty. There wasn’t even time to think about breakfast.