Bare feet on stone, toes gracing the air, the young man looked out into the darkness. Below was the soothing sound of the river. Behind, cars went by heedless. His hands were outstretched, one on the lampost on his right, the other feeling the night air, trying to grasp from the darkness some form, some feeling.

A smile spread across his face and his resolve became set. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“Yes, hello operator,” he said quietly into the phone. “I am going to jump off this bridge. It’s not very high and I don’t want to die. In case I’m hurt, please send someone over. Thanks, goodbye.”

He leaned down and set the phone down on the bridge–liking the idea that he might somehow be able to get it later. He looked over his shoulder at the incoming traffic and waved, a big smile spreading across his face. Then he let himself fall into the darkness towards the shallow river.

~

He took his hands off the keyboard and glanced around his apartment. What insanity was this that he had just written?  Why would anyone want to leap off of a bridge, to perform an act associated with suicide without the intention of suicide?

He stood up and gathered his big blanket around him. He stepped out through the screen door in the back. He circled the large tree that stood in the back then headed for the larger patch of grass. This he also circled for a moment before simply falling over, his large comforter rubbing into the grass. A few minutes later he was asleep.

~

Why? Because I could. Did I or will I do either of these things? No, I am too scared. Why am I too scared–that is the question. What is it that I am afraid of–that we are afraid of that makes these two things absurd. I want to continue this to contemplate on this very question. Keh, absurdity, insanity–whatever.

And this is what I shall publicly envision this to be: a writer (obviously not me, of course) who is full of eccentricities (like taking showers in the dark) that are meant to help him control and find meaning in life finds himself writing of a person who is completely devoid of meaning, such as the person in the first scene above. Go from there.  Many smiley faces

Uh, I just saw a cockroach. Got to go kill it because that is what we do with cockroaches.  If I were to eat it, that would be for mere shock factor. The absurdities I am talking about are the ones that balk convention but not for the sake of shock. You don’t joke about suicide.  Perhaps setting the cockroach free–that would be the sort of absurdity the writer would do with some saying about the value of life and the absence of disdain for living things. The person he writes of…would probably not care much about the cockroach. In actuality, both of the actions above would be ones that the writer’s character would do. And its time for me to stop elaborating now. This is enough for me to go on later.

A short little tidbit of a poem inspired by my run down to the river and getting eaten by mosquitoes.

We run with the cockroach
Down a darkened dank street
Only these passing streetlights
Keeping time with our feet.

To the river, with us!
There is much to be seen
And lives to be delivered
In its unruly sheen.

Keep pace, dear one–let’s move
This way, to the side
This dark little path
Is where it resides.

Now pebbles at feet,
The water approaches
Its surface an echo
Of these bushes and branches.

I am here for blood
For you, little ones.

I stare over the rocks
Still, for you, to see
My sweaty flesh is waiting
So take a part of me.

Safe inside, the carpet touching my feet.
Hands on keys; take me somewhere.

The ominous sound; far away but loud.
They replace my scalp, with black tiles.
A thousand hammers; wake me.
The noise echoes; I cannot see the world.
It is all around me, and it is nowhere.
Sunlight peeks, hides behind closed blinds.
A motor runs, backdrop of hammers.
Is that my blood, which it runs?
Is that my thoughts, that they beat?

Every day, a razor across my cheeks.
This reflection–still scruffy and worn.
Rearranged, all these insides.
They are–they are not gone,
Only somewhere; I cannot know.
Peace, what is this to me?
There are workers, ravaging my soul,
Scouring, refining my mirage–
An armor, from sun and rain alike.

These people–did I place them there?
The sounds–is this my heart refashioned?
I woke, as it were, and they were here.

Sense–what order is this?
Illusions always, chaos reinstates.
Death, when the noise stops.
Endings, when the world stands still.

I am fragments, mind shuttered out–
For now, I fall in a hundred pieces.
A little longer, then perhaps I’ll leave.

This if the first poem I’ve written in nearly 3 years. I used to love writing poetry so much and it was such a good practice for the use of language and symbolism. So here we are. What do you think?