Reflections from the ether
Under an orange light; a kick away from the suspension bridge — this is where the young and hopeful love-struck circle, looking for the perfect spot to park their passion.
My companion — my friend — looks to the west, growling uncertainty at the carousel of lights which are disturbing the consistency of darkness:
This haunted place, where my reflection stares back at me,
caught in glass, pools of water, and in the bark of timeless trees…
the coaxing whispers of familiar breezes;
they want me to follow them; to stand on my head;
to throw myself from the bridge — to hang myself again…
And the ghosts of the law ride in on phantom steeds,
the bodies of the beasts decorated with slogans, their nostrils flaring,
sending swirling plumes of hot breath downward with force:
the only warmth in this chilling rendition.
We all share the knife here, carving slogans of our own on to
the ‘people places’ of the past,
gratefully accepting the citations handed down to us,
like unholy wafers at a sinners mass
Somewhere in the distance, a mother cries,
a girlfriend sighs,
and a large stone collides — both with the surface of a fast moving stream,
and my stained, aging memories.
©1997 Jon Mychal
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