Mumbled conversations sink into the layers of paint reverb through the walls of this railroad apartment. A story on the boob tube Eyewitness News or a squabble of love over who did the dishes last rumble. The sounds are dulled edges, the last echos of church bells on Sunday morning or the shuffle of car doors shutting after a funeral. I can hear the highway not far off and the wind breaking the leaves off parking lot trees. Chance like a die landing on a corner.

Even with the big moon and the city lights, I can still see the stars. Red Mars is hanging, waning to get big. The palms of my hands get shrill with the night air as wrinkles creep my chakra. My residual being takes a rest with a deep breath as I reminisce yesterday like extra dumplings. Yesterday wasn’t even memorable, but I full filled it all up.

I’d like a diatribe about how baseball is about life, but our metaphor and simile recklessness bends too much supporting heavy weight like that. Let’s just say I’m the fan of the team that never wins. The real sad part is that my team has never been the underdog, not even on a swing set.

Like so many other families, mine had empty spaces, even though I was filled to the brim. Some dubbed me hyperactive and mandated my sugar intake monitored. My mother refused to give me medication. None of them could have known that I was collecting the pages of my life in a rowboat. Rowboat after rowboat, like kites strung together on the River Styx. None of them could have known.

The only instruments I ever played were the kazoo, the harmonica, the triangle, the snare drum and the harpsichord, none of them professionally or even in any semblance of a band. I was mostly a percussionist, but I made a few guitars out of a shoe box and rubber bands. The sense of rhythm was always an inherent one, I’m tone deaf and can’t tap my toes.

Rhythm doesn’t real pose that much, so it isn’t a problem. Mostly, I tune the world to a groove and despite the ruts and potholes it runs smooth ripple. I’ve been afraid of expectations and even less of potential, so matters rest on islands where blue is seen deeper. I’d rather wade than swim but either way, I want to sleep in a hammock.

Of moments above ground, this may be. Breaking it down into just trickled events is important too. Take an image or a sound and tuck it into tomorrow. Remember it like it was today.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.