Big QuestMature

A quadriplegic slips from hope. A requested monologue for a friend.

Beneath the daylight lace grown over the ashen underbelly of September clouds, I...
I am alive, still.
Eyes up through the clean, straight window frames,
up to their slow, celestial advance over the seaside city
on to the whispering waves, their song of motion ever sent up through the alleys,
through the doors...
I am unstirred, but here, running.
Up through trees, a tear through leaves,
into a crash in the glade, yet with a dream of motion more.
Body dead, my thoughts are swimmers in a time of fruitful flood,
some away to golden shores;
most, from there or before, to choke and sink.

The subterranean body bunker is changed in two minutes,
the piss-hit slips snatched off for a new flat white wrap
pitched as warm and soft, could these limbs relate.
In the small hours before sleep slipped, I was god.
Palms up and out, taut before my chest, hot light lit a sphere ahead,
the steel beast bound hard on toward its radiant curves;
and where it had torn into my guts and disolved the fabric of my spine
the power held me apart from this demolotion, caged in oscilating, heavenly arms,
and saw the fucker cut down itself, in a spray of oil and fire.

But up I go with the assist of the firm metal limb above
and the guidance of a girl with warm, plastic eyes speaking to and offering nothing.
Laid with lies, those eyes promote unconditional, unasking hope;
and the piss stain below my beaten bones probably goes, as it does,
but I can't turn my head.

This is a big quest and I am failing to cross the mountains.
Snow heavy, legs lit with crippling chill,
I've a shining spire to reach, deep over variant country--
Mires of slime-slicked briars to hook and fault these pressing feet,
Vine-tied ways to tax and abate these snatching arms
as out in boiling lakes is this beating chest to be cooked in escape of the chasing wolf--
a Sweet Love to reach,
but how, up out from these pits under dark, but laughing skies?

Reach down.
Carry me there.
But the haze sharpens out of this
finding only that thoughtless plastic glean...
as down I go,
buried alive in the sheets.

On roads, out through the cities
across the grasslands, into woods untouched...
mobility, escape from the bonds of our modern birth.
Birds--out into the scape of winds, flown from the cages that held their spirits mute.

[beat]

To the Sweet Love overland,
with muted spirit, I am alive.

To the Sweet Love overland,
with muted spirit, do I survive?

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed