Man: Behind the scenes deleted left out and left off unfinished incomplete scenes left behind. Life is a palindrome. Screaming up into the ceiling that ascends and descends with the circumstances that wash around the stem of one's brain. These windows this window all those windows of places left behind where plans were left behind. Pages and panes and panes covered and inscribed with the breath of frustration and disappointment. Trumpets and other brass are stuffed with emaciation of elusive beauty and disappearing into the aesthetics exchanged for affections expelling the pus of misunderstanding. No more. Percussion of the roof's response to the sky's promiscuity hint at memories of fingers of another on one's neck. Those fingers these fingers untangled for the loneliness that ensues upon these angles presenting the blankness in the windows this window this bedroom window. Lying on one's back on the bed that shrinks with the vocabulary of forgotten enjoyment being torn out page by page pane by pane from the window curtains torn asunder by the end of illusions. The end of illusions takes these hardened feet to kick out the glass and send shards upon the grass to spread toes once younger over that knoll serving in that past as the cushion for his body softened from older angrier voices eased by the breeze made out of oboes and violas. Frozen in the glass blankness filled without trees or leaves or distant mountains. Clouds cover this window these eyes these thoughts.
Other places other panes other windows are absorbed into these windows this window this cold window window hot with the rage unheard or laughed at ridiculed by voices that refuse to dissolve. Doomed into a reverie infected and festooned with blighted icicles shaped by all the ignoring built by vats of advice quilted with miles of averting eyes that see now and tomorrow and yesterday only the grey of larger hands those larger hands that left their impressions on shoulders held back and held down and the face turned suddenly glancing with forced quick fleeting glances that cannot flee as the eyes surrender their moistening water to sadness hardened into fists tightened into words that elude these pages.
Eluding the pages a language just for those who can still escape into memories large enough to fit narrowing bodies that compress all that all this all those pressed fading withering petals between pages before they are all ripped out and off they ride the waves or the atmosphere skipping off into other adventures denied by denial of pain into the panes the window panes iced with the neighborhoods of frozen occupants incarcerated by addresses made to them to all by words in envelopes sealed with the spit of forked tongues.
There once was a zebra that would sit at the chess table in the wild and make a point of luring various animals to play and refuse as soon as they took their seat. Every animal would make a sound to express their umbrage at the zebra's obstinacy. Finally, one day an orangutan asked the question all the other animals had neglected to ask. The orangutan asked the zebra, "Why do you invite the challenge only to refuse it?" The zebra sat silent for a moment and replied, "I am looking for bigger game." The orangutan said, "There came a time when the land absorbed the lakes and waterfalls and water was scarce. All that could be found were mountains of boxes. A zebra came upon one of these mountains and asked if it knew where all the drinking holes had gone. The mountain of boxes sat silent for a moment and then responded, 'What do we know? We are only boxes of board games that have been put away until we are unsettled by questions, curiosity, and disasters. Between those times we take long spells of sleep resembling comas and death until interrupted by the above mentioned items. Items. We are items replaced by other items that now never sleep and have arisen as the board of players that use this whole world for its playing board.'"
Playing board upon playing board stacked into the darkness of the universe. Rules competing against laws outside and inside these windows all these windows this one blank window. Shoulders that shrugged for words that no longer arrive. Left waiting and left left waiting again for words that have been delayed by uncertainty and hopelessness tinting the glass with a doomed reverie doomed into a reverie infected and festooned with blighted icicles shaped by all the ignoring built by vats of advice quilted with miles of averting eyes that see now and tomorrow and yesterday only the grey of larger hands those larger hands that left their impressions on shoulders held back and held down and the face turned suddenly glancing with forced quick fleeting glances that cannot flee as the eyes surrender their moistening water to sadness hardened into fists tightened into words that elude these pages and fall into a doomed reverie doomed into a reverie doomed to fall into a reverie doomed into a doomed reverie.
Other places other panes other windows are absorbed into these windows this window this cold window window hot with the rage unheard or laughed at ridiculed by voices that refuse to dissolve. Trying to dissolve those voices that refuse to dissolve and resist the end of illusions. The end of illusions takes these hardened feet to kick out the glass and send shards upon the grass to spread toes once younger over that knoll serving in that past as the cushion for his body softened from older angrier voices eased by the breeze made out of oboes and violas. Frozen in the glass blankness filled without trees or leaves or distant mountains. Clouds cover this window these eyes these thoughts.
Reaching this end of the world where it turns neither into darkness nor light but forever into a dead blank page where words encounter nothing but lifelong orientation to empty surroundings devoured by the mercenary appetite of time.
- Max Stoltenberg
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