Sunday, April 24, 2011


The tenebrous onslaught of Saturday evening's storm was being dissolved by Sunday morning's reticent attempts at the resurrection of the hopeful.  But we will say more of this hereafter. 

His pill had taken a long time to dissolve in the old spoon.  Why hadn't he changed that spoon?  Procrastination bleeds  throughout the waters upon which the discouraged toss their stale bread.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

Sleep was delayed by the noise of the storm that towered over the home and seemed to have its origin in the asteroid belt.  Asteroids the size of small moons, airports, planes, supermarkets, gated communities, and battleships.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

The storm was turned off by the rushing waters of procrastination and disposed of ideas.  They seemed to abruptly splash against the window that let in Sunday morning light dimmed by the cloudiness of doubt and high winds.  He felt the drowsy after thoughts of his pill from the stormy night before.  He was distracted by the scene outside his window.  Hedges and trees had their leaves shaken in a silent film where the color was being gradually removed.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

Only now he noticed that the crib in the corner was empty.  Where was she?  He thought he heard the sliding of feet across the kitchen floor and a cabinet being closed.  Or opened?  He felt the blankets next to him stretched as if across a body.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

Who was that speaking in the other room?  The other room.  Which room?  Was it the nonsense of a little one?  Was that sound the banging of little fists against a plastic tray?  Or was it the wind playing with the house?  Was it the nonsense of a not so little one?  But we will say more of this hereafter.

He rolled over and noticed the sheets were stretched around his own body and not another.  He struggled to disentangle himself from the blankets.  Warmth and comfort.  Nonsense.  Loose threads strung between toes.  Nobody in this room except him.  Anyone in the other rooms?  And which ones?  Closet.  Pants.  Shower.  Water to awaken.  Waters of procrastination.  Flowing over the dying body.  The cemetery could be seen from the bathroom window.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

Looking out the bedroom window on a sunny Sunday morning or any weekday for that matter.  Decaying matter.  Matter that doesn't really matter anymore.  Matter decaying under the ground in the cemetery that can be seen through the bathroom window near the back of the house.  The back of the house.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

Looking through windows on a sunny morning.  Not this morning.  The high winds and muted dawn of never never never making eye contact again.  Looking at the other corner of the room.  The metal seemed to echo back his thoughts but more hollowed out sounding - and feeling.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

The metal of the torpedo in the other corner of the bedroom echoed hollowed out thoughts.  They crawled back into the bed of his mind.  His mind deadened by all those things that made it onto lists and all those things that didn't stand a chance of making it onto lists.  Things that didn't stand a chance.  But we will say more of this hereafter.

Memories of sunny Sunday mornings looking through the bathroom window at the cemetery faded into hollowed out thoughts.  Looking for paper.  Folding paper of crumbling buildings.  Waters of procrastination flowing between crumbling buildings.  Not so high this time.  Not so high.  Looking for paper.  Something to write something with.  Fingers are crumbly like crumbling buildings with waters flowing between them.  Waters of procrastinated bodies.  Waters.  Crumbs.  On the floor.  Next to the torpedo.  The bathroom window.  Toward the back of the house.  That could never keep up with the front of the house.  Could never stay ahead of the cemetery.  Hollowed out thoughts echo off of metal.  Watery crumbs.  Floating between abandoned buildings.  But we will say more when looking for paper.  Water rises between empty buildings.  Waters filled with ruined paper and the disappearing ink of the hereafter.

- Max Stoltenberg

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