Night Typhoon

Night cold hum and whistle from outside the window. A man standing too soft to see. The breeze floating once has now been stifled, shut off just a steady wave remains piercing the air, a dog whistle, a tone. Night cold hum and gristle from the dinnertime pork, the supple fat mashing between yellow teeth. There is a cup, a distant haze as the laundry machine spins, works so as to create a temporary solace, a moment of blissful engagement. You walked into a bar, not alone this time. There on the counter a turtle in a box, an assortment of dead fish, cheap and delicious. Night cold drums that you thought you heard, only your heartbeat, your neck twitches sometimes and yet you remember some voice, some memory like a snapped photograph, like a blurry aftermath of developed film.

Only voice felt seen, a rasp emerging (erupting) what you thought you thought, your body twitches neck ablaze now no news, a typhoon and yet you were not there that time, but might be possibly soon. Still heart beating resounding crevices pulled tight the string, the hum, dull yet bubbling painful, often so, you think, still regaining enough energy to pull on your kingly robe at night. The blue robe that you bought, when exactly did you buy it? Some time ago in a discount store it was there, the size just right, just enough in range for you waiting for you, a warmth now in the dirty garbage room of your life, she said. The mirage of the other side, the life of other people waiting for you to come along, not knowing that you would arrive so early, not ready for your bumbling intrusion. There was sunlight, but masquerading in the brightness of the day, that day, today you imagine will be a little different, a tiny bit more wholesome, perhaps. Little do you know that on this particular day, no not today, it was a different day, you would tire for only after a few hours of footwork, a few hours of brain mashing and then retire to a cold quiet place for respite. The staring glare kisses back, blackness of empty tides are always pinning you to the floor, holding you down.

Woods, green flesh molded melting precipice and the lunch that was packed in a plastic bag from the supermarket. How fitting that nothing remained, that everything was eaten, devoured. Chirp, dissolve, chirp implode into conscious reflection of some other forgotten thicket, a woods that you once inhabited, an ordinary spot near the house that you used to wait at when you were a boy. For who? No recollection, no empty spots left. That memory floated in, pushed itself into emergence this afternoon as the blue chair and the empty old room provided the perfect place for a doze, a concentrated work-related doze, a slip a slip. The day beat clear this afternoon, the day before the typhoon. Now, waiting for the rain, waiting for the wind window open and listening to the evening tide concert of cicadas and electrical wires pulsing (no, buzzing) as sharp shards piercing flesh, skewering sinews beat against your window repeatedly, over and over, repeating, repeating.