Muzzle Climb

Muzzle Climb

Mark Coleman

   The delphiniums can grow as tall as they want. They're not going to hide anything. The caterpillar will always be distinguishable from the stalk of the weed.
  She stands rigid in sleepshirt and kitty heeled slingbacks. No bra. No panties. Just her underneath. Exquisite although askance.
  She has those lips you always want to press yours against. The hair you constantly want to run your fingers through. Wanted so badly to spend your life with her. Wanted to explain to her that everything would be alright. Even though, this would be a lie. Hear people speak about her only in terms of sex.
  Her sweat band discarded after tennis. A bikini on a banister back chair after a swim meet. Dangling there like shed skin.
  Your instructor just left you in the deep end. You thought you were going to drown. You feel that way now. A pool of obfuscation that mists its way into your eyes.
  The book case stares you down. The sofa swallows you. Looking for loose change in its cushions. Knowing there's none to be found.
  It was all just a college try, after all. You try to wish away the memories. Try to obliterate retention and reason. Sink slowly into ready made madness. The insanity where a different sort of angel lives.
  Sometimes, we descend to the attic and ascend to the cellar. Falling into blue skies. Rising into turbulent seas. The plane you know will never leave the tarmac. The oxygen masks that drop, regardless. A bird must have flown into the fuselage again. I think they must get sick of being that close to heaven.
  A crash is the same as a layover. Nine times out of ten. We smoke too many cigarettes and drink too many drinks in the lounge. There's an I that was buried with You. They're starting to stack the bodies because they've run out of room.
  The family plots no longer contain family members but just odd bits of consanguineous appendages. A distant cousin's head rests on the thighs of a stranger. Rape becomes a necessity of the tomb.
  Feeling like a Bolero painting, even though, you haven't eaten in days. Sitting on the floor with your whiskey. Staring at the wall. Trying to find some pattern there. There's nothing but scuff marks that seep into your heart.
  You'll never write the great American novel. Never write a short story that anyone will ever want to publish. You're relegated to obscurity. You are obsolete.
  Take a few Clorazepate. It helps, I suppose. But in such a small way that I might as well have left them in the bottle till I seized.
  I become less sure of myself everyday. Excoriating mirrors that only show how pale my life is compared to my dreams.