The zombie horde is here.
You see them wandering through town
eyes cast down
faces gleaming in reflected glow.
They don’t notice anything
beyond the little screen
that disengages in the lie
of social connection,
introspection?
Zombies don’t know how
to greet a stranger with a smile
to meet a new friend’s eyes.
Their thumbs down
they’re dumbed down.
Mindless, spineless,
hypnotized, mesmerized,
To numb to despise the device
that drugs them ’til they hum,
with zombie poison.
In the black room,
the light from the
DVD player claims
it’s 12:00.
12:01.
12:02.
Every minute
counting down to you.
12:03
Are you dreaming of me?
You’re creating a story
folded into the pages of the book
It’s not the story the author intended.
It’s not what people expect to see.
But your folds and cuts
tell your story,
and your story
is enough.
I feel your humming.
Though you are far,
the vibrations of your present loss
reverberate.
I am humming
remembering you
near
nearer
nearest
wrapped around
my memories
squeezing like
a garbage compactor
humming
as it crushes
moments into
memories.
My stomach is a stormy ocean
and I am an ocean liner,
furniture sliding left and right,
uncomfortably.
Captain stands firmly at the helm,
looking forward,
aiming for calm,
hoping the ship
does not betray his confidence.
I found your cardigan
and held it close
searching for the sensation of your arms.
I gathered up the folds
and held it to my nose
searching for the scent of you.
You’ve been gone too long.
Instead of holding memories
Now
it’s just a sweater
you once wore.
This was your toothpaste.
The tube still holds the contours of your fist
the last squeeze you gave it.
I wrap my hand around
imagine your grip,
the skin on your hand like satin tissue
squeezing paste to scrub your teeth.
It is a long time before I can remove the lid
and squeeze the paste onto my own brush.
Remembering your hand
holding mine.
The plan
erodes
corrodes
implodes
as you stare at the wreck
you must live in.
But maybe
all is not as it seems,
maybe this is only the wood shed
and there’s a mansion
waiting for you
around the corner.
Within old skin
undoing
rebuilding
becoming
rebounding
safe growing places
bright glowing spaces
this microcosm populated
by homunculi
stitching new skin.
The vehicles wind along the highway
a immobile caterpillar
stalled by a moment
when the physics of motion, energy, and force
spun unfortunates into each other’s path
with a crash
that froze the goings
and made everyone in the long line
contemplate mortality.
.
.
.
The stretch of the TransCanada Highway between Sicamous and Salmon Arm is a frequent site of accidents. I usually count on having to detour from work 3 times each winter. Today was the third, and there are 2 months of winter left. Our thoughts are with those who were involved in the accident, and medi-vacced out.
Shawn L. Bird 