Have you ever heard the story of Rip Van Winkle? He was an idle and lazy man who, while wandering the mountains to escape from his wife, encounters the ghosts of Henry Hudson’s crew. After drinking some of their wine, and they always had some mighty fine wine, he falls asleep under a tree for twenty years. I mention this tale of prolonged slumber because as the universe enjoys a certain cosmic balance that yins every yang and embodies the Ouroboros through fooling the serpent into eating its own tail by putting it in a hot dog bun and topping it with sauerkraut and mustard I have become the insomniac recess partner on the other side of the see-saw from one very lucky Dutch bastard.
Adam, the guiltiest of the usual suspects contributing to the staccato of my circadian rhythm is currently eluding capture from the matriarch of the household with a mini-nativity scene Baby Jesus stuck in his mouth, literally consuming the wooden body of Christ, while Jack is still dipping his first Bisquick roll from dinner which ended 30 minutes ago into the broth of Kathleen’s Famous Flavorless Post-Thanksgiving Turkey Carcass Consommé. Meanwhile I am frantically trying to get today’s post up before I black out from exhaustion on the keyboard of my ThinkPad.
This is just a long-winded way of saying that I’m tired and as soon as I’m done here one son is having the Messiah forcibly removed from his mouth, the other is having golden brown dinner rolls forced into his and I’ll be preparing my tail with all the fixins.
Before I began blogging a few months back, my writing was geared more towards poetry. Since tomorrow is Sunday I’m including a piece I wrote called Sunday Morning. It’s no M.C. Shadöe but it does reveal my espresso-sipping beret wearing artsy bohemian side. Shit, I think Adam just swallowed one of the wise men. Goodnight all.
Everything seems light this morning.
As if, because it’s Sunday, Gravity decided to sleep in
pull the covers up to his weighty chin
and continue dreaming about being reassigned to the less
stressful surface of the Moon or even Mercury
where his work would be significantly less demanding.
It’s possible that, throughout History, Gravity has been known
to occasionally oversleep
endowing Earthly creatures with fleeting moments of weightlessness.
And perhaps our ancestors used this transient buoyancy to
leap across the Atlantic or construct the Pyramids or assemble Easter Island.
But floating towards the ceiling I decide I won’t be so ambitious.
Why should I be?
For decades I’ve been held to the surface by the familiar ropes of gravity
and now today I’m a helium balloon floating towards the abyss of space
away from the clutching hands of a distracted child.
On my way to the nearest window I swim passed the kitchen
and realize the pot of coffee I had put on has exploded
into a thousand beads of liquid onyx.
Like impatient commuters buzzing around Grand Central Station
they drive the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner to cower
under the blades of the ceiling fan away from this agitated mob of gemstones.
Once outside I momentarily get kite tangled in some branches
then narrowly avoid the power lines that form
a surging net over my street,
but then I am free.
Below me my neighbors on their way to church must think it divine intervention
as they step reverently from their homes and suddenly begin a lofty
ascension towards where they’ve come to believe
The morning sky is filled with sections and pages of the Sunday Times
soaring like prehistoric birds plumed in the feathers of yesterday’s news.
The morning sky is filled with cats and dogs precipitously awaiting the cloudburst
that will drench the world in a deluge of colloquialism and idiom.
The morning sky is filled with people in different poses of flight.
some flapping their arms madly
some frozen in the cartoonish pantomime of Superheroes
some, mostly children, have their arms outstretched and are making propeller sounds by humming through vibrating lips.
Then I hear a stirring.
A frustrated rustling between the sheets and through an upstairs window
I see Gravity throwing back the covers and hastily tying
his flannel robe around his ample stomach.
His arrogant hand shoots through the roof and gathers
the dangling strings from the bottoms of our kicking feet
and all that concerns me on being dragged back to Earth
are the broken plates and puddles of coffee
patiently awaiting my return.