Chris Everly

 

 

Neuron Speaks:

 

The touch of,
Gentle warm air on a fall day.
Slight smell of,
Bright red rhubarb still lingering.

The sound of,
Children in the park
And jovial laughter.

Sunlight banters,
And no clouds to hinder,
It looks for a game of tag,
With anyone who will venture.

The taste of,
Blissfully strong coffee
With just a hint of sweet.

Grass,
A fitting backdrop as I lay
And take in the glory,
Keeping me afloat
As my mind ascends
To the heavens.

It’s all a wonder,
Or in his...

Today...
Heaven is in front of me,
And I’ll bask,
If only for a few.

Thank you.




 

Honest

Commercial paper filters,
Grounds in place,
Large pots,
Sandwich stations,
Breakfast, breakfast,
Give them breakfast,
Now lunch,
Bagels, muffins,
Donuts,
Err, its doughnuts,
Right?
Tuna salad,
Make it chicken?
Coffee made a thousand ways.
Skim, no skim, milk,
Wait 2%,
Maybe cream,
Lite or half/half?
Sugar,
Nah, use a substitute.
None at all.
Black.
Small or large?
Jumbo,
I know,
A great one!
Just a medium,
Go get it.
 

Drive-through
Headsets,
Funny hats,
Can I help you?

Would you like fries?

Clean the bathrooms.
Sweep the floor.
Now mop up.
Wipe down the walls boy!
Didn’t you go to high school
With that BMW guy?
8, 10, 12 hour days,
Sometimes 14,
Double shifts.
Open,
Now close,
Open again,
Jump.
 

Weekends,
All weekends,
Nights a plus.
No days off,
Sick time
With a note.
Vacation is quitting.
60 hours for $400.
8 an hour,
No raise.
Ok, 2%
After a year
At best.
The minimum
For the maximum.
 

Young boss, 22.
Old me, 38.
That would make me
18 when she was 2,
22 when she was 6,
Is that right?
My math maybe off.
I only took calculus.
No use for algorithms
Here.
Can’t apply any education
Here
Can I?
 

As any mother would say though,
“At least it’s honest.”
Could be out selling drugs
People do.
Could be cracking safes.
Some have.
Cheat on my taxes,
Steal from the elderly,
Lift a car or two.
Armored car heists,
Like in that movie
With the bad acting
Not far from here.
Too dangerous,
Not for me.
 

Perhaps I am a dreamer.
A struggling artist.
A mere manifestation
Of a more successful self
In some alternate universe.
An after image.
I heard Hawkings say that once.
I also heard Trump say,
“If you have not made it by now…”
Then…
 

I’m sorry Donald,
I disagree.

Right now,
I’m just being honest.
 



 

Saturday

So goes the day,
Of whispered wind
And summered spring.
Now set adrift
To mull over lingered thought.
Failed aspirations
And wilted dreams.

But,
If I could just peer,
Perhaps only an instant,
Through a filtered looking-glass,
I might witness a dawned sunset;
A freshly frosted dew
perched on pedals
Sprouted to the heavens.

And then,
Only then,
There might be hope.
 

There just might be...

 

 

Conniption
 

A fit,
A rage of moonlight,
Shades the slumbered city street.
Translucent undertones for fallen souls.
Rusted winds scram,
Leaving immobile torments,
And various pockets of clutter,
A stark reminder of rooted past;
The city is still, and so am I.
 

This concealed perch I habitat;
A furtive touchdown station.
My desires racing,
Pulse hastily jumping,
Butterflies in familiar dance,
The cool dampness of sweat,
Assaults erected neck whiskers.
Calm please,
I’ll play a game with myself,
Whisper, ok count, just count,
Shhhh…
 

One…two…three…
 

My mind wanders,
Mandatory motherly drop off,
A spray of alter water,
The bitter smell of incense,
A mix of afternoon tea,
Cradled in a single malt,
The fondle of clerical hand,
Weekly penance required
On disheveled sheets of sin,
Anoints blame upon me.
 

Four…Five…Six…
 

“I said quiet you fool.”
“They will hear.”
On tip-toed spears,
I watch her friends surround.
They gleam in playful banter.
Sounds murmured through the pane,
A scene of dancing on hard stained floor.
Seemingly joyous with her departure
Its midnight,
Dominance fills my eager thoughts.
After years, it’s almost here,
I’ll wait for them to leave,
Then, we can dance.
 

Seven…eight…nine…
 

Focus ventures off again,
A plate of untouched blanched peas,
The ripe smell of my father’s whisky,
Glared stern look of implicate anger,
The red tainted floor boards,
Shellacked with blood and dribbled spit,
Broken glass irritatingly strewn about,
Grains of green forced down from backside,
A blue checker apron turns from sight,
Tears, fought back, from my terrible.
 

Ten…eleven…wait…
 

“They’re starting to leave.”
“It will only be her.”
It’s been so long,
Since we surprised on the street,
A simple hi,
Shamefully, she did not return.
I knew then.
New apartment layout memorized,
Ventured in while abandoned,
Gags and tightly fastened rope,
Stoke the fire of my longing.
Plan rehearsed over and over,
It will last all night, I will make it,
And then…
Calm yourself…
Not yet…count…
 

Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…
 

Concentration whisks back,
Glazed frost of the school shower,
Gym cloths removed violently,
A mad rush before they come in,
Much too late, looking to hide,
Vulgarities shouted in my direction,
But nowhere to go.
Five start their rummage,
Nothing fits a popular fancy,
Blows and blackened strikes rain,
Neglectful made lunch just looking on,
I knew better, I made them mad.
 

Sixteen…Seventeen….Eighteen…
 

“The lights are off.”
“Do you have everything?”
The voice of escaping cool air
Drowns the creaking of vinyl,
As I climb in the window.
I have mastered that language,
Just old hat to a cognitive suicide.
Crawl please…slowly…quietly…
Calm…she may hear…shhh…
The off-white of baseboard
Lights my way in the dark.
Painting her out to me,
As if the Gods themselves
Are assisting the pilgrimage.
Rosary beads still clenched,
From her nightly spoken pleads,
Mary cannot help you now,
Like you never helped me.
 

“Hello Mother, I’m home.”



 

 Copyright © 2012 Chris Everly


 

Chris Everly is currently studying creative writing and poetry at SNHU. Some of his other work was seen in last fall’s issue of the Tower Journal. He is currently working on his first play, but poetry is his only love.