Somnambulant

Somnambulant

Mark Coleman

 

  The storm can seem so far away, when you’ve got other things on your mind. The clouds can gather and gather but they cannot negate their nonexistence. The lightning and thunder is less than nil. But thoughts are like jackhammers behind your eyes. The stark ones bending introspection back into limbo. Wandering through the vaulted pasts with a hand firm on the taxi’s back. Totaling up the fare as you skirt around actualization. Deceiving yourself as you twiddle drunk in the backseat. The stop blurring off into the distance with a woman out, pursing her lips and clutching her handbag as tight as she can.

  Making eyes at the back of your toddling head as you take the corner. The wheels like stones skipped across a lake. Always trying for the opposite shore. Where they all throw their shoulders back and stand up straight in their youth. The band taking itself out and the night with it. Downtown where they blink their way home. Thumbs hooked over pockets and mascara smearing perfection. Legs heavy with drink and smoke. Through marshes that send up their vegetation to make the wayfarers stagger and trip.

  Up with the cigarette pasted in a collaged face. Making rings that have no place in proposals but kind of seem like haloes in the right light. Laurelling the muse. Hand in hers, belting out lyrics and sonnets. Pouring the bottle into the tub, and diving in with one eye leveled at the skirt that clothes inspiration. Fireflies taking the first step into the gloaming. Wings caught up in mason jars with the light dimming. Running back through the arcade with pinball machines on every corner. Silver balls bouncing like bells down a jester.

  Swaying through the motions. Martini olives surveying the room. Stuck and bleeding to the bottom of the glass. The crock of an arm processing signals. Hooked and taken through the swinging doors. Carried over the threshold and into conjugation. Sleep disturbed by solemn memories, and frosty old inns where the hearth fights every advance. Flinging back the scarf, and heading out to pursue sheep. Gigot of mutton hanging over barstools in country taverns. Sheparding drowsiness, but stepping over the inert forms of closure.

  Hair a whiskey brown. Eyes an absinthe green. Sitting there in a frame, caught for one eternity: still and peaceful. Sending off jingles and small flashes that make the blanket freeze. Trying to mold the pillow into enough of a shape that it can be slept with. Arms aching with the years left back there across the ocean. An unborn child creating the divide. Eventually, it will find its way without the assistance of you.   

  The ships in port and the sailor’s musculature. Matrimonial beds defiled by procreation. Tattoos running off into the belly to start a commissioned piece. Death knells for the un-tampered skin. Flowers on graves that just look like dirt no matter how long you stare at them. Restful on one side. Tiresome on the other.

  The serenades falling into their plots with crumpled letters and broken mementos. Day trippers with bouquets to shame your own. Making a show about their placement. Leaning over, spreading the flowers a little wider. Apologetic towards you, but unaffected by grief. The reek of duty and obligation.

  Smiling out the month with tender caresses running across the brow. Her lips candied with your taste. Bringing you closer to her heartbeat, and making you understand where it comes from. Lashes still long and coquettish. Lids going up and down like uncertain shutters. Counting the losses like holes in the ceiling. Sitting up in bed with a mouth burnt by ashes and happy hour shots. Finding a crack in the wall and following it to the mirror. Spend the night wondering at the aged reflection.