like the bottom of lakes

and voids,

the empty space

crawls like the white

in my eyes.

there in the backdrop

above the dirt,

beneath the sky,

the pulse has always

existed behind

velvet drapes.

the wooden stage:

stained dark brown

with taped markers

to tell us

where to stand.

when the curtain

opens before

our exposed bodies,

the outer worlds

fall plain-flat.

outside the

puddled windows,

the planet forgets

to oil itself.

the rustles die,

leaves brown,

machines rust,

continents drift further

away from each other

and vanish

beyond the vapor.

(all while)

the spotlights shine

their thick rays

onto our united selves.

a fall

like sideways teeth

clamped together,

they chew my heart

and veins.

egg-shell protectors

suck their mints dry

and gum lacklustered.

no sharing or seconds

for my greedy cage.

and my arms swing

like a door with loose hinges

as I stumble down.

fingers snap with ease

and legs, like yellow paper,

tear between covers.

the metronome still clicks

inside the confines.

my lungs bounce back

as if the soft organs

were filled with air.

morning sprouts

morning sprouts

like a pregnant seed.

surrounds my open eyes,

threads the white,

absorbs the black.

too many hours

ran rings around me,

left me as dry as a newspaper

and sore as a runner.

my split head

vibrates a massage

of strings.

the bass hums

and violins climb

into footsteps

alongside the stretch of day.

yellow machines growl,

dig their claws into the cement

as their workers plant pipes

between the dirt

below my window.

hardhats pick at earth.

the snare injects itself

into the pulse of the beat.

the piano rains

and the accordion staggers

a soundtrack

with no picture.

I raise the shade.

admire left/right

discover rolled over

lovers keep quiet

mouths & open breaths

mid sleep. stare

back countless

distractions & admire

incongruous company

(buries roots beneath

my bed).  I water

midnights & scout

branches before you leave

in morning.  a slow

door hides backward

bus routes when time

forecasts each

toad, smile:

sleepless nothing

exists for now.

awake

when the thick black of night

fuses with the empty space

in the middle of my dreams,

the bags underneath my eyes

might fuse with the more

natural pigments of my skin.

I might wake to you:

the sheets torn,

the bed off kilter,

the sun through the shades.

I might have to close my eyes

for a minute or two and reaffirm

that I have woken.

rigid fingers would rub my eyes

as I sit up against the wall.

and when my shuffling wakes you,

you ask me why am I all smiles

this morning of mornings.

I would have no expressible reason

but the heated glass

behind the shades.

Copyright © Joshua Cristiano, 2007

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