drifter between the scenes

by the river gar, I sailed

The psychopomp was a native man, dark of skin, taut and lanky. The boat was built for one and a half men, curved wood, sail-less. Charon-like, t-shirted in a dirty maroon red, he appeared to push at the bottom of the river using a long rod. This made the boat move around the murky waters in alternate vienna, night time, travelling between pockets of cities and land and houses without lights. A pale moon cast her light that was foreign and from another dimension.  We didn’t speak to each other, the boatman and I.  We arrived at an ancient, white stoned mansion; columns from the greece era, steps like a white-house, everything unwashed and dirtied by a past rain.  A woman, with large hips and flowing gypsy skirt, came on board even though it was obvious there was no space. She shoved her head towards me and I commented, “I like the silvery white of your hair, the way it blends into the red.” I could look into the details, the thin fragile, curling mass of hair, as if it was spray painted. She did not make a sound. Another man came on board with her and I knew he was another occultist though I did not know him from anywhere. He was her master, controlling her in some explicit way, like she was a pet. Maybe a golem. An animal. And she turned into one, a thick furry goat and she was lying on her back, the way someone may carry a dog, legs spread open before me, flashing her gray, animalistic, and potent vagina in my face. The man told me to stroke her long sexy legs, to arouse her.   To ruffle up her furs. I thought it was inappropriate thing to do such a thing to such a creature (I did not see her as a woman.)  Then, the entity inside her, if it could be called an entity, escaped from her body by some unimaginable way (I did not witness it) and plunged into the black waters. I looked over the side of the boat, terribly concerned that the thing could not breathe underwater. The boat seemed high now, like a ship above the waters and I looked at the creature diving deep then surfacing but never breaking the water level. The woman was now a black fish, large, flat, a sting ray maybe, merged with black tuna. The psychopomp was up on land now, a harbor extension made of  concrete. He was automatic, precise, preparing bread pieces which he threw into the water. The order here was to get the fish to swipe the food, to open its mouth above the water so it could breathe. No sound came from the other man though I knew he was delighted, enjoying the scene. Everything was so deep into the night and the occult significance of the dream resonated  thickly and meaningful and was utterly strange. I woke up, somehow knowing all of them well though none of them had told me their names….

after the funeral of a man I did not know.

Yesterday, I saw the Taoist priest, in his oversized, bright yellow shirt and pants, smoking under the stairwell of my block. He was on the phone, probably negotiating another funeral service and he appeared aged, taut, darkened skin and rough of voice from all that tobacco and chanting.  He’s not here now, and all the wreaths that line the public walkways  are sagging with the passing of days and the density of cold rain falling heavily on New Years Eve.

The funeral under my sister’s block is finished, over.

The body, having left the neighborhood with grand procession, with trailing monks and crying family, would probably be buried or burned by this time.  One man remains, one man of the family that is, in the customary white blank t-shirt, the black pants, the handphone responding to text messages shaped around condolences. He watches over the remains of the day, white straws still in their wrappers on the floor, a table full of dragon fruits, offerings to the dead, to the ancestors, for the grieving. Machines to keep drinks cold are turned off, bags of ground nuts and sweets are packed away.

Other men, in red raincoats and jackets shining with water, shift and carry large refrigerators onto the backs of a small truck. An indian man is on a thin steel ladder, uncoiling wires and unhooking lights from tents. Large yellow plastic tarps are being folded, canvasses that sheltered the prayer ensemble now lay stacked on wet grey floors. And the man of the family  the one left behind to oversee the tear-down, sits among the mess of a three day ceremony now past.

Soon the void deck will be empty again, the wooden planks sent back to their warehouse corners awaiting another death space. Circular pieces of wood that served as tables would rolled back to their quarters, metal cross legs closed and leaned against dirty walls somewhere away from here. Flowers, littering the floors would be tossed into garbage bags and delivered to the incinerators just like the bodies at crematoriums.  A life, just like the year, ends but by this time tomorrow, other forms of life will drift through the void decks and the passages of time as if death never happened.

without knowing her age

We were in different states of undress, in the yellow closed room

She was kneeling, naked, on a bed layered with dust and I stood by the side, wondering about this nameless girl.

She held my stomach and I felt jungles inside, growing in reverse

Then saw her taking from me, that density, those ancient veins.

Her skin was growing darker and I could not bear to kiss her forehead

She was growing older and the skeletons inside me grew smaller

The very old one, with the top hat, with the skull face

He left the zone of my belief, off to take up throne, buried at the end of the other days

She held the snake by its tail, teasing it away, uncurling it from the egg

Her light skin was glowing again, softly

Her eyes did not meet  mine.

In another state of undress, she got off the bed

A phantom scent leaving trails in the dirt on the floor, escaping, reuniting somewhere else, merging down the road

And off

Off beneath the orange lights along the streets

Off and away.

before takeoff

Why was it so grey in the plane? And why were we waiting?

Someone was pushing himself through the aisles, stopping here and there to sell off his exclusive wallet. I overheard the brand he was touting but did not recognize it. The man next to me explained something about it but i couldn’t understand his words.

The selling man had no seat on the plane and was hoping someone would give up theirs in exchange for the wallet. Perhaps there was money inside, and other exclusive cards and pictures of family, interchangeable, transferable.

There was another exchange with the man next to me, and he explained that whoever gave up their seats would have to settle beneath the wing, just under the engine.

In my mind I saw the angled wing and the great silver engine sucking in the body, eating it alive.

Then I was two seats away from a father and a little boy who had a window seat. Morning was rising, or was it the last of the rays? The dad was explaining to me that his son needed medicine. two white pills was in a large porcelain bowl filled with water and a broken, powdery hardboiled egg. The father was mashing the pills with two fingers, stirring the overwatered concoction and I was hoping the boy would not notice the pills.

He didn’t.

He lapped up the content which to me, didn’t look very appealing. I could see the clumpy orange of the yolk, the disfigured egg and I imagined the soup to be sandy but the boy loved it. WIth his porcelain spoon, he scooped up a snail with no shell and ate it deliciously.

I do not think the man with the wallet found his seat.

I think the boy was an infant I thought of the night before, suspended as an embryo, born in the lighted heart of a technological alien planet.