PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The dated bulbs flickered yellow shadows as he slowly passed them. In the cool morning dawn of the Boston suburb, the cars rarely came and when they did they gave off a soft woosh as if to prevent waking him up from the deep slumber of hung over thoughts about the road ahead about the road behind and the feet joined the hard pavement of the road as though at this special moment, it was the yellow brick road of Oz, with all its simplicity and with all its mystery and magic; and even here, he thought, there is a wicked witch.

He thought with the heavy seductive thoughts that fused through his head as broodingly as his feet moved against the road, a heel planting itself before the entire foot landed firmly down, only where I am going, nothing waits for me there and I will have to return within the hour. His breath building up, like a rollercoaster that moves up to the highest peak before it stops, waiting for the perfect moment before it spirals. I wish this were a small coffee shop down a desolate alley with gray cobblestones and orange oil lamps somewhere in Madrid. But it wasn’t.

The yellow street lights lazily flickered in a descending crescendo before they vanished altogether at the start of the trail. He looked down the empty street, toward the Charles, toward where he will be running, peering into the dim, lightless uncertainty of the unpaved roads along the banks of the river. It was always like this, he hated jogging and he always stood at this spot each morning. Sometimes he would turn around, deciding that the peaceful comfort to be found ahead is not worth the sacrifice because to the right, where the river was not, he had to pass the house of the devil and like a black hole at the center of this brilliant galaxy, it sapped him of all the strength he would gather, there she was, he thought, ruminating in cowardly, submissive fury that perpetually lingered, there she sleeps, he thought, but did not look, feeling its presence like the presence of an invisible hand in a dream around the base of the neck, strong enough to prevent talking and swallowing. He felt betrayed and abused, I am at her mercy he thought, except when I run, then I am at your mercy my dear home, he said outloud and patted the solar plexus, feeling the ever-present thump of nervousness and excitement.

He wiggled the toes to bring the focus back to the moment, basking in the snugness and warmth of the decrepit shoes purchased long ago that are like another layer of skin now, wondering why they have not spoiled. Another woosh of a passing car reminded him that he was not alone, he took a breath and leapt forward.

Surrounded by the shadowy gloom of worn out city lights, against the blinding brightness of the occasional traffic, he breathed through his nose, exhaled through the mouth and counted the breaths one, two, three until the speed of the breathing was too much and the pace of the run was too fast. He did not slow down but increased his breathing, feeling the momentum jerk him forward. There was nothing to lose, he thought, feeling his heart beating against the chest like the pounding of fist inside a prison cell trying to break free. Looking only ahead, towards the edge of the river where the Soldier’s Field Road crossed with Market Street, he pictured his heart shattering, he pictured the feet sliding from under him, landing in a puddle of failure and sweat down into the mud and he forced a wicked grin upon his face and did not fall.

There was nothing to lose he thought and anyway, I am not running from anything nor towards anything anymore. There is only this Kierkgaardian moment. He tried counting the breaths again, against the heat of the chest, the cramp in his right leg, always there and always muted, going numb after enough steps, he relished the moment.

Soon enough, he was passing through the intersection they used to take to get to her house, hand in hand, it was close, he could feel the breath from her nostrils against his, panting now, gasping but not in agony, he thought of the river, just gotta get to the river, another woosh of a car and her breath turned to stone, another blink, it turned into a black cloud between his eyes with sparks flying everywhere like stars exploding into supernovas, another blink, into a picturesque flash of a silhouette of the womanly hourglass of a true woman that erects dreams before they are diminished into the unforgiving turbulence of a delayed flight trying to land, in desperation, unable to wake.

The river only a few blocks away, he increased the pace but ran as though in one of those forsaken dreams, slow motion swimming after taste of a metallic grip, hands empty into fists, yellow lights like the yellow fireflies of drunken bouts in Missouri, where he used to hum Russian songs and lie on haystacks, on the back of trucks and along the river banks unlike any river banks here, with fireflies and loud crickets and the majesty of the Milky Way holding his secrets. Where the demons were few and small and beatable and he did not need to jog, to get through another day, and why get through another day, he wondered as he always wondered. But the answer, like the question, was a weak temptation, its pull long ago dried, faded.

Her house behind him now, he could feel it overshadow the steps, like his own faded greatness from years ago overshadowed him daily, strong, innocent and involuntary, and he increased the pace, feeling the daggers piercing the sides, muted against the endorphins and cold wind made colder by the sweat, howling and chasing away the thoughts,  pumping arms into the air, elbowing the past and punching the future, he just had to make it through the first pier, that came at the end of the first stretch, like a light at the end of the tunnel, where the trees opened up and the darkness faded, where often there would be be an old fisherman sitting on an empty bucket turned upside down, bobbing his head and thinly smiling with warmth that disquieted him, and when the old fisherman nodded, he would avert the eyes and keep running.

The breathing heavy now, overshadowed him, too. He crossed the main intersection, sprinting across to avoid the cars, down under the unseen leaves of stalker trees, down the solitary road with thick roots that used to trip him up, down the known territory where each protruding root, rock and each hole in the ground was a welcomed obstacle, down where made invisible by the darkness he merged with the clouds behind and transformed, became fearless and careless. 

To the left, the bank of the river whispered and wooed, to the right, from behind the tall statues of evergreens was the morning commute of the machinery civilization, barely audible above the loud choking saliva from his mouth, the ringing in the ears, and the more difficult it was to keep up the pace the more determined he was, tormented and mocked, mocking in return, digging every foot into the earth as if the next step will fail and send him over the edge, as if having just one foot with all its strength in the ground would save him, knowing deep inside, there was no rescue here, only the undeniable, inevitable conclusion that left him winded, wounded, tried and intoxicated enough to sleep.

It’s not my fault, he thought, that my muse hides down the deep end of either the empty bottle or the empty gun barrel. And in thinking this, he thought that it was a trite conclusion, digging harder into the frozen earth. Looking down he smirked to himself and said outloud through the choking, “This earth - this earth - she will always catch me when I fall.”

But he did not fall.