Posted by Atticus on August 19, 2004, at 10:43:21
The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming, 2001
The jewel-like
Amber flames
Of three tea candles
Arranged
In a triangle
Hang suspended,
Almost motionless,
Above the scratched
And chipped surface
Of my wooden
Kitchen table.In the triad's center,
An audio cassette
Lies atop
A carefully wrought
Hand-written note.
The song
Etched in
The magnetic particles
Clinging
To the tape's
Dual reels
Is Sarah McLachlen's
"Angel,"
And the note
Politely requests
That it be played
At my funeral.Her lyrics float
On the updrafts
Of my mind,
Mimicking
The evanescent tendrils
Of white smoke
Rising,
Soul-like,
From the table top:
"Spend all your time
Waiting
For a second chance,
For a break
That would make
It okay.
There's always
Some reason
To feel
Not good enough
And it's hard
At the end
Of the day.
I need
Some distraction,
Oh beautiful release,
Memories seep
From my veins.
Let me be empty,
And weightless,
And maybe
I'll find some peace
Tonight.
In the arms
Of an angel,
Fly away
From here ..."Her soft voice
Croons
Across the jagged peaks
And the
Blasted,
Blackened,
Post-nuclear moonscape
That stretches
To the horizon
Whenever
I close
My eyes,
But the reverie
Fades,
And my attention
Returns
To the task
At hand.Behind the glow
Of the tiny flames,
The only lights
In the apartment,
Sits a wedding day
Photograph
In a sterling silver frame,
Alyssa and I,
Our arms wrapped
With placid familiarity
Around
Each other
Amid an explosion
Of late-August roses.
A fountain,
Containing
An abstract sculpture
Carved from
Gorgeous pink
Italian marble,
Sends jets
Of glittering
Rainbow-hued
Liquid prisms
Tumbling
Through the air
Before
A cloudless
Deep blue sky.
The faint light
Of the miniature
Ceremonial torches
Gives the photograph
The aura
Of an icon
Looming
Over votive candles
Within a hushed church
Where even time
Holds its breath
In anticipation.And directly
In front of
The leading corner
Of the blazing trinity
Sits a box-cutter,
Its handle a dull
Pewter color,
The razor inside
Still sheathed,
But waiting,
Waiting,
With the
Impatience
Of
Unblemished,
Untried,
Untested,
Unquiet
Sharpened steel.I slowly grasp
The box-cutter
In the quivering
Fingers
Of my right hand,
Raise it
To eye level,
Then flick out
The shiny, shiny
Triangular blade.
I touch it
To the lines
That I've drawn
From my left wrist
To the crook
Of my elbow
With a felt-tip pen,
Marking the positions
Of the veins
That pulse
Beneath the fragile
Veil
Of flesh.I touch the point
To my wrist,
Then pull it
Away.
Touch the point,
Pull away.
Touch the point
And
Bite
Into the skin,
Watching
With detached
Fascination
As a bead
Of rich crimson
Rises
From the cut.
I think,
That can't be
My blood.
That can't be
My wrist
Because
I'd never
Do
Such a thing.
I'm observing
Someone else,
A stranger,
A desperate
Lost stranger
Trying to find
His way home,
And I'm here
To help.
So I lower
The razor
Again,
Aligning the blade
With the
Meticulously drafted
Road map
Adorning
Wrist and forearm,
Steadying myself
To hit the accelerator
And begin
The journey.The phone rings
And I jump,
Startled,
As it emits
A stammering
Electronic shriek,
The sound of
A digital
21st-century banshee
Wailing
In stuttering
Mechanical chirps.I grit my teeth,
Touch the blade
To an arm
That remains
As placid
And unaware
Of the
Nearby danger
As a lamb
Entering
A slaughterhouse,
But the telephone
Just keeps on screaming,
And the momentum
Has been lost.
The box-cutter
Tumbles
To the floorboards
From a grip
Grown numb
With tension,
And I move
Toward the phone
As if
It is a strange
And exotic
Creature,
My mind
Adrift
In a place
Where the
Extraordinary act
Is the ordinary,
And the ordinary
Is now alien.A man says, Hello,
And launches
Into a pitch
For vinyl siding,
And I stand there,
Listening passively,
Thinking,
What kind
Of fu**ing world
Is it
Where a
Guy
Can't even
Slit his wrist
Without a
Vinyl-siding salesman
Butting in
And accidentally
Saving his life?
I tell him
I live in
An apartment,
And he seems annoyed
That I didn't
Bring this up
Earlier,
But, hell,
I had other things
On my mind
At the time.The phone clicks
Softly
Into its cradle,
And I shuffle back
To the table,
Retrieving the box-cutter
From the floor
And retracting
The razor blade.
I blow out
The tea candles
And pick up
The photograph
And the cassette
And the note
And place them all
In their special box
For another
Night.
How many times
Has it been now?
I wonder.
Twelve tries,
I think,
An even dozen.
And I can't help
But smile, bemused
At a new nugget
Of hard-won
Secret knowledge:
God
Has a sense of humor
Even more twisted
Than my own.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:379428
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/379428.html