the sharp light presses through my window blinds and sivs through my faded red curtains
it bounces off my bedroom mirror for my eye lids to absorb
and I awake holding myself in unmentionable crevasses.
I'm holding back a down pour.
Blindly, I stumble to the bathroom.
It's two hours too early and my alarm clock is still sleeping
Awake pre-sound, pre-light, pre-city hustle and bustle
car horn all the way down 19th avenue coffee brewing and latte foaming
quarters clinking into the laundry machines
man driving man crazy,
I'm pre-cognitive in the black, thick silence so I get back in my sheets.
There's rolling thunder in the distance.
When the rooster crows dim light begins to flood
breaking levies and crashing into my 2nd floor apartment at unpredicted speed
Storm warning, grab the life vest
get running. There's some saving to do.
By 8 the day is only getting colder and lonelier in the dense morning dew drop intensity.
High pressure zone, the barometer is pointing a stern finger to my location
as I cut through the stifled highway air with a metallic blue cobalt racing time.
I hear cymbals crashing straight ahead, I'm going south in the sunny northern California morn.
Emergency broadcast system interrupts the early May winter of my discontent.
Bridge may be icy. Tornado watch around the bend.
It arrives with twists and turns of my emotion in every which when where and what direction
papers flying, piling recklessly in every corner
red light flashing with 10 calls waiting, people dooming,
and a sea of teens ebbing in and out and in and out and in and out and...
I use them to measure my breathing.
I put a sign on my office door: "closed due to bad weather storm"
power lines are down, fire is spitting out the ends and there's little chance to connect
but the wind forces the door open anyways leaving me near frozen,
mind barren, shuttering and blind sided.
A demanding inhale, it takes full seize and carries me away through a stomach panging, inside empty afternoon.
High chance of precipitation by the evening.
The light levels are still rising through 2pm and the sea is pulsing, splashing over the last-hope barricades I made of paper clips and surrendering white-flag sticky notes.
The more time passes, the stronger the day becomes
as it taps at my guarded energy like a penetrating breeze.
Temperature is rising and I'm colder...
More chaos, more questions, more ceaseless ever flowing unfailing push and pulling
my hair is frazzled and on end but the river never stops.
Big gust. Inhale.
"Amy, I need help."
I'm a stallion is a rainstorm running wild - bucking - crazy - and then it stops.
The sky a greenish gray and calm.
and then it echoes, "Amy... I need help... Amy..."
Woe there, easy, easy, just relax, girl, woe.
It's placid, quiet, pressure's dropping.
"Okay. Let's see what we can do."
And as the last unbent vowel coyly dribbles from my tongue,
levitating in the innocently distilled space round the ear of a child,
as I ney and sigh and stamper,
the shivering breeze brings back its clenching fist to wince the eye of the cyclone.
The day is not yet done.
In and out and in and out and in
a whirlwind undying fury fear striking case of reality
I fight the relentless wrath wearing sunglasses down the El Camino Real.
You push? I pull panic ridden but collected, like putting on goulashes already filled with rain.
It pours some more and I absorb. I left my sunroof open.
I take the wheel at 10 and 2 and arrive at 10 to 7
wearing nothing but my windblown exhaustion and the fear that this days forecast was a link in a chain fourteen miles longer than necessary.
In my room I spill out across my milky white comforter made of down
...with a spoon full of sugar, I'm Mary Poppins laying down on a cloud,
Hiding - recovering from my internal volley dark and dreary as the sun sets after a clear skied day.
Extended forecast's not so certain. 50% for all conditions.
My eye lids, like windshield wipers that stopped working, drop hard upon the upper crescent of my cheeks and do not move, for me and no one.
My mind tinkers on - tick - tock - tick - tock - like an unwound grandfather clock before it's last farewell chime
and my hand instinctually reaches up to a little gray box on the window sill before I turn off the light...
the Brookstone white noise maker 3000. 60 minutes set for "thunderstorm," as I drift away again.
lol @ unmentionable crevasses
ReplyDeletebpueluo