| Basking in the Afterglow Evan Greer It�s really hard to talk. Well, sometimes it is. I find it unnerving to speak aloud And to think that once they leave my mouth-- the words are not mine lost to the air waiting around my face for me to say something (true.) But a brash understanding of a window led me to this point in my studied silence and I cannot forget the time that we stood near (we) and remembered: A window feels no pane. And behind the window we felt no pain. Through it, gazing past our own reflections at the young world below�the frozen asphalt, the sticky glistening sleet collecting on corners and cars, and corners of cars, unblinking people shuffling from one poem to the next, basking in the afterglow of each moonshow. Inside, minutes exploded into seconds, and seconds took flight in the winds of infinity, while I held you close�thoughts like obedient children, straying neither to the past or future. Unable to comprehend anything other than the instantaneous moment at hand. My guitar has been talking to me since I got home. Tugging at my shirtsleeve, nudging at my knee, asking for a song. And I sigh deeply and try weakly to find the chords that fit the feel that I might think I want to try to think about beginning to start to create�but I can�t. A song is a poem; and poetry is an imperfect art. It is impossible to describe something perfect�a connection so there that it almost isn�t there�with an imperfect art. We don�t fit into an a-minor or a b-dominant-seventh. But she [the guitar] keeps asking, gently prodding, poking at the ripples of my mind for the words. How can you write a song about a day when the day itself was a song? And I remember some days before that the number lost [I was never very good at one time before it got too late we sat and I said three words that made it so but now I�ve lost it: <backspace> And I remember some days before that the number lost or something else and I rubbed my dry hands in the car waiting even though someone that could have been me knew There�s nothing to worry about, but that�s never kept a man from worrying. These are the words that Erik wrote�or thought. He rarely wrote anything down anymore, not since last new years. When, instead of braving the Decemberly chill�the January chill, he supposed�to ring in the next 400 or so days, he stayed locked in the bathroom, sitting on the counter next to the sink and writing in his little green book. That was when he realized that writing was dangerous for him. It was much easier to talk to a page�bending, and silent�than to the laughter. He hated laughter because he did not understand it. Why do people laugh at jokes? Knock knock. �Who�s there?� the words pried themselves from Erik�s throat. He had been fixing a light bulb in front hall while he was writing�thinking. Looking down at his hands, really studying them, he was surprised by their beauty. He was more surprised to find that the light bulb now glowed with warm light�turning red through the blood coursing through is fingers. �Erik, it�s Angela, come and let me in.� She used his name. That was probably why he let her in. People forget to use your name these days, he always thought to himself. Even close friends, or lovers, they just say �you��or even worse, �we.� Like a nurse or something. This he thought as he rose first to his knees, then to his feet, and went to open the white door. �It�s dark outside,� said Angela, bending down to unlace her coal black shoes, while Erik�s large eyes followed her movements closely. �I understand,� he said. �I know.� She smiled, not the weak, sad smile, but the other smile. The one that made him feel wonderful and young and sometimes made him want to cook or clean or just sit and watch the cat sleep in a sunbeam. Cats are smart like that. They always find the warmest spot in the house, and ravel themselves into a donut. The smile�always fleeting�left him too basking in the afterglow of a poem. He had tried to write it�every 400 nights he tried again, but there was always one word that he could not find. The rest was right�he knew that because the page had told him so. He wrote: Washing a rainbow scrubbing the falsities away, breaking apart the lies that make up our lives�the lines that make up our lies, and the everlasting vision of a single point of light in the blue cold night But there was a word that he could not catch. He wasn�t sure where it went, perhaps after �rainbow scrubbing.� Perhaps not. �It doesn�t matter where the word goes,� he said, �when I find the word I�ll know where it goes.� �What?� she asked, as she finished tightening her shoelace. �Is this a joke?� He asked, frowning at the hardwood floor. �I don�t think so,� she frowned too, �is it funny?� �Not all jokes are funny,� he torted, not caring that to tort is not a verb. If he was writing it down, he might care, but since it was just in his head, it didn�t really matter, did it? �You�re funny,� she smiled again and this time the word almost came to him. A pudgy hand reached from his mind and tried to snatch the word, but at that very moment his mind came upon another thought, and the hand was jolted aside. �Funny like a joke?� he asked, cursing inwardly that he had lost the word. Never say something out loud before you have finished writing it in your head, he reprimanded himself. �Not all jokes are funny,� she said. He knew that he had heard those words before. His brow involuntarily furrowed further as he regarded her with suspicion. NO! mind is racing mirror fading got to get away from the bay of my existence no tide running slowly eating in the piping of frozen (pies) S tart something Everything something has seen is here. P land Nothing measureable has passed here. I nexistence R evival Why, I have begun to think. A lleve my purpose L eave my intent. He thought to himself. �That is true,� he said. [Not so! Not so! Truth is only found on the bottom shelf in supermarkets, or in skeleton barcodes black and white stamped and stuck to the faces of silly putty steak knives ozone Styrofoam sickness soaring something rolling flaming down a hill and bent out of its comfort by grabbing clutching clawing hands that seek only truth.] But how could she know that? He released the tension in his foreheads, allowing his eyebrows to shoot straight up and bounce three times before returning to equilibrium. �Are we going to stand by the door all night?� Angela brushed past Erik, abandoning him by his own front door. He would close the door. Three nights later. Angela was lying on the couch rubbing her temples. Her mind laughed, because the two-tone shadows changed slightly depending on which part of her head she pressed her fingers against. And she began to wonder why her mind was laughing, and what Erik had meant and NO! Tiny chessboard slowly turning read this next what am I thinking? Something inside finding poss read what next? why am I writing? Wondering what it really is S I thought I only thought I only No, what it really is. P Thought, I swear I wrote Seeing I nothing at all. is R not one to hope. A word. L Having closed the door, Erik came and sat on the rug a few feet away from her. �I�m glad you came,� she said, �I was getting worried after the second night.� �The door was heavy,� Erik said. Please laugh, please? �You.� She laughed. She did, he swore to himself. �That was a funny joke,� he said, expectantly. �That was a funny joke,� she said, expectantly. I�ve heard those words before, he thought to himself, but he did not wonder. |
 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. |