Viscous Sky

The swirl of the sky found itself a point where the trail of clouds gathered, spiraled, and funneling. It took the unwelcoming appearance of a tidepool, a tornado, an anus. A big hole in the sky ready and willing to shove the painful bowels of the earth into the ether. As the formation moved very slowly across the azure while spinning the slowest of slow moments, I was captured by the emblem in the sky when I woke up to stare outside my window, to inhale a new day of plant oxygen from the suffocation and dryness of the interior air. I was ready. As the panes creeked open, the breath of the jasmine, and lavender elders raised up towards my neck, then curling around my chin and eventually being sucked in by my deep inhale through my nose. My nostril hairs flutter. Then a sneeze, a self defensive eye closure and then the blurring of the world as I recapture my vision for those few seconds. I rub my eyes. I rub my nose. Next to the blinding morning light reflecting on the white building across the street, I happen to see the most beautiful spiral in the sky, curving trailways all centering to a center. And then I thought about it. The death of the earth being swallowed, including myself, granted I have never killed, adultered. Only those two. Soon, the winds slowly picked up, brushing along the surface on the hairs of my face causing a another great inhale of humanity. And then I was invited. Possession is what I would like to call it when the beauty of the world is self engulfing, almost to gorgeous to set eyes on it. Take me right now. No novels to read, no erotic centers to poke. No rejection of the ecstacy. And this gaping hole in the sky growing larger upon the day slowing opening up to see this other world within it. One final breath, and then I immediately step onto the window sill and make a leap into the sky as if being upside down, the world can be corrected, drowned, or incinerated. I live ten stories high, plant-less, in a neutral complex of animal-less state of human companionship. Singles galore. And one by one, I was witnessing all of these lives awaken my expressions, vis-a-vis their own to mine. 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. When I am forced into the opening of the reflected sky from the morning dew on the ground, the last thing I remember seeing was myself. In the reflection of the tinted low-e glass window across the street. A man in his 40’s, salt and pepper hair, spiky from the pillow he slept on, a hnad to his mouth, a dropping of his coffee cup. The slight sound of cracking of ceramic, an inhale that was not my own, and his eyes, gazing on me, skimmed over with morning dew. My last mention of this face, its last call to all, to say goodbye, a simple smile, arms outspread, and asking for the way to the exit. The speed on the way down, my tears trailing, my running nose, my spit to the ground. The hole that is in my head that will never escape me, the tight space crammed with too many dreams and goals, the self centered pool, wet, and untouchable without gloves, half-assed and self deprecating. Breathing is the only source of body movement. Up until now. My favortie color, when excreted from my eye sockets, the color of war, the color of life, the trailing stain, viscous, and draining. The blue sky, the red carpet, Together the green space I will to be relased. A little sight to see as you run out of your apartment to greet me with your skin. You smell like coffee and beard. Your hand compresses my fist. I stare into the reality of the sky above me, the emananting spin of the sky towards me, torturing me, to leave. The puff of air I thought to have inhaled was yours blending uncanny thoughts, letting me feel another’s pain, and holding on the a few seconds before departure. My belly is overgrown, like the hill, old, creased with age from falling waters, undiscovered places in the brush, the tops of trees, and skeletons that lay buried of undiscovered bodies, undiscovered ancient ruins, undiscovered bonding. You give one more breath before the cloud above me changes its shape and form. Changes made, day leaves, and the sound of beeping clocks, coffee pots, dorrbells, car horns, birds, ambulance sirens, fire alarms, and walking signals allowing the blind to live through live as somewhat normal. I leave my windows open and turn away leaving the impression of a Dali painting, melting man over me and the fine ground coffee scent clouding the air of dust and ash. A mental picture of the color that is raw umber. I sit back to stare outside. We sit. We stare. Unaware. Unfathomed. Undiscovered and becoming red.