A jumble of wandering umbrellas
paint splotches of rain inside the city.
Street gutters roll thick with wet garbage
offering discarded philosophies to fat rats.
I dream of traveling in the spring
sunshine warming my soggy bones.
But the shadow of an alley drips
shaping the portrait of an empty man:
“You’ve wandered too far from consciousness, my dear.
It’s time to wake up.”
Her little arms can’t fit around the whole pile she raked up and she tips over, falling headfirst into the heavy leaves. She breathes in deeply, letting the decaying earth rest in her lungs. She giggles and rolls over in the pile, looking up at the trees glowing with sunlight, a mosaic of flame spread along her sky. An orange leaf sways, controlled by the soft breeze like a marionette, until it lands on her nose.
She tries picking up the leaves again, using her arms as a shovel and waddling into the house. Her dad comes out of the kitchen, following a trail of dirty leaves dragged through his house.
“Luna?” he asks.
“Hi dad!”
Sitting cross-legged in front of the washer is his daughter. Watching the leaves tumble around in the soapy water. Soon the leaves will clog the draining filter, their thin fabric ripped in the rinse cycle and caught in the machine. But for now the man sits next to his daughter and watches, a technicolor whirl of soap and leaves.
Sidenote: This short story/poem was inspired by season one, episode eight of Scooby Doo: Where are You? That’s where these first lines of dialogue are pulled from.
“Hey, don’t you wish Funland was open? The rootbeer floats, the chocolate custard, the rides? Man, that’s livin’.”
“Yes, but right now it looks a little spooky. Even haunted.”
“Haunted?”
“Don’t be silly Daphne.”
The lights start coming on.
“Hey, look at that!”
“But that’s impossible. That place won’t be open for weeks.”
Clicking of roller coaster as it pushes the invisible riders up the track.
“Look!”
The ride rolls across the screen, silently. No screams of joy, no playful chatter.
“Well, this calls for a little investigation.”
As night sweeps over the fall horizon, the lights turn on in Funland.
The roller coaster clicks as it pushes the ride up the track. The cash register opens with a loud ding. The cotton candy machine whirs into motion. The ferris wheel squeaks as it rolls around the moon.
But no one’s there.
Except for him.
His name is Charlie. Or, at least his maker calls him that. He doesn’t know what he calls himself.
A blue robot with a pale face, completely smooth and without features. Mechanical parts that make his mouth perpetually frown and glowing yellow eyes that flash when he’s excited.
He zooms back and forth across the park; making hot dogs and shakes, playing carnival games, and riding the ferris wheel.
Floating through the tunnel of love with a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hard metal wrist.
Eyeing himself suspiciously in the mirror maze; the different ways his body contorts confusing him.
Riding up the roller coaster, click, click, click. Sitting in the front seat. No smile to curve, but eyes beaming like headlights with the hazards on.
In the summer, families come from all across the country to visit Funland.
In the fall, there’s Charlie.
Eyes flashing, always flashing.
Crawling along the sun baked rocks, the centipede weaves in and out of the mind-numbing heat, keeping antennae perked towards any signs of life (of food).
There’s no meal for it here, or anywhere.
It dances its legs close to the ocean, cleaning itself dirty with stinking, wet waves. The dead water beats along the coast line, empty waves singing a repose to a world that once moved.
It’s trying to find its way home, although “home” continues to change as the world continues to crumble.
Finally back, the centipede scurries quickly towards shelter — home, in the ear of a shriveled human corpse. Nesting on the flesh, raisin in the sun.
If you look closely
you can see the city move.
Ants, crawling along the sidewalks,
that slip into streets,
that fold into hills and buildings;
Each part building on top of each other,
a palimpsest of concrete and brick,
creating an abstract mural,
blurring the lines of time together.
The lone mercenary walks into the town at midnight,
his slow footsteps silenced by the cold dirt road running through the middle of town.
As he passes by various barred and broken windows decorating the gloomy scene,
flames lick the tips of trees,
growing inwards like an incurable disease.
Soon, the fall light will fill the lane in a blazing final fury,
then spread through the deserted buildings with the ashes of leaves.
At the far edge of the town, a single oil lamp hangs from a slanted roof beam. Even in the end of the world, the few remaining people cluster together at bars.
The man reaches the door of the saloon
-or where the door used to be-
empty hinges a sobering reminder of the world that once moved.
He doesn’t acknowledge the only patron,
an elderly man staring blankly into his beer glass,
most of the rim layered in a fine ring of dust.
The lone mercenary goes up to the woman behind the counter,
too busy cleaning the dirt under her nails to notice the gun pointed at her head.
After the bang, screams, then silence, the man knocks down the oil lamp,
letting the flicker catch on the wooden porch.
Inside, the old man watches the dust as it floats in the air,
and sinks down to the rim of his glass.
Brain Butterflies 