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Frost

July 4th 2011 17:21

Heavy breath
Frosted Glass
I have this feeling
It will pass
Tastes that linger
Overstayed
The sky opens
To close the day

Crystals form
And wait their turn
For the sun to come
and scare the birds
Come and gone
Fly away now
Fly away now
Fly away now
Fly away

And it rains
And it rains
And it rains
Oh how it rains
Sting of cold
And growing pains
And it rains to close this day
A fitting end
A fitting end
A fitting end
To it all

Shapes that dance
In afterglow
The sun that shines

And the wind that grows
Biting chill
Crystal clear
Distant calls
Away from here

Dirty snow
Blackened ice
Lifeless air
Echoes distant flight
Come and gone
Flown away now

And they fly
In a neat little V
Frost nipping
At their extremities
Distant flake
From the clouds
Coming closer
Just to drown
Melted friends
Melted dreams
Melt into the
Sea

Believe
In nothing
But yourself
The ice has frozen
Everything else

Believe
In nothing
But yourself
The ice has frozen.

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Posted By: Kevin Kousha - Category: No Category

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Right and Left, Right and Wrong

May 3rd 2009 18:04

Odell’s mammoth hand barely fit in the handles of the cheap orange packing crates. The neat lattice design was ideal for carrying large loads, but the handles dug into his fingers, turning the pink palm of his hand red and his extremities white.

He looked down at the crate he just picked up and was met with hundreds of smiling clowns, printed on every box of paste to remind every person of its maker. Slowly, he started to make his way to the end of the alley, marching from its entryway to the back door of the restaurant with his head tilted awkwardly to the side so nobody could see him from the busy street. The only thing less glamorous than his salary was the nature of his job.

New York City created a symphony for him, a rhythm to work to. The taxis provided a consistent hum, never losing synchronization with the ever-shifting stoplights, while the other cars provided dissonant sounds as contrast. The gently swaying antennas of the tallest skyscrapers sometimes peeked down on the ground like the best conductors, minimal but important. Almost without thinking, he picked up every crate in time, dragged his feet with the same sense of pulse, and put the load down accordingly.

The heavy back door swung open and slammed against the brick siding of the building unchecked. Odell’s boss emerged, wearing his usual white shirt, top two buttons undone, black slacks and greased, not polished, shoes that were caked in the stuff to avoid squeaking that would give away their actual worth. The image was topped by a black, balding head defiantly slicked back as though to ward off the age, and hair loss, that was imminent. Odell stared at the sight with a mix of disgust and awe as he usually did.

“I said diversify. Remember? Diversify the crates you carry. What good are four crates of angel hair when I need tomatoes, herb, and other things to make the sauce? Jesus O, it’s the easiest job in the world and you can’t do it.” He jabbed.

Odell barely paid any attention to what his boss said, because he focused on the nickname O. It bothered him, because it was accompanied by the word Jesus. It was either ‘Jesus O’, which sounded either like a dyslexic hymn or an abbreviated curse, or it was ‘O Jesus’, which never had a pause between the two and gave him the impression that something was terribly wrong. Of course, in his boss’ eyes, something always was.

Odell brought himself back to the alleyway he stood in and realized that his boss had been staring at him waiting for a reply.

“I could bring them in like you say, but then I need to get crates from the bottom pile, so it takes more time. In the end I’ll get everything faster.” He countered.

“The hell do I care if you get all this here in record time unless what I want gets here when I want? Now bring over that crate of basil. I need it for the sauce I mentioned earlier. Did you forget about the sauce?” He mocked Odell, and then turned to leave without a squeak. “What a start to my weekend.” He muttered.

“It’s funny you use that term diversify.” Odell yelled after him just before the closed fully. He could see it open again slowly as his boss slid out from the gap.

“Why is it funny Odell? I’m curious. Men of such intellect like you and I should-” he paused to make a regal gesture and search his limited vocabulary “-we should pontificate.” The expression on his face, despite his gestures, remained bitter.

“You tell me to diversify the crates I carry, and its fair, since you do a good job diversifying your workers.” There was an uncomfortable pause where neither of them knew whether to speak. Odell continued. “All the cooks are Latino, all your waiters are Italian and I’m the only one who isn’t either, you hire me because you have to by law, and look at my office.” It was Odell’s turn for a regal gesture. “Beats a cubicle any day.” He shot at him.

“Well, I run an Italian restaurant; do you think they want to see a black waiter?” He posed.

“Do you think they want to find out the best dishes are made by a Brazilian who can’t even read your menu?” Odell posed.

“What do they care? It tasted good. It’s about what people see. They think a waiter with a tight afro and flashy Nike’s would be out of place.”

“And I fit right in right here?”

His boss shook his head and closed the heavy door as hard as his short, useless arms allowed.

Odell walked over to the crates by the street, picked up a crate of paste, and started bringing it to the back door.

The door flew open again and slammed into the building’s side yet again. Odell waited for it to close again, hoping his boss would have second thoughts about a second confrontation. He heard heavy breathing and the ruffling of clothes and without turning back barked at his boss.

“I don’t care if you have a heart attack I’ll leave you there and say I was doing my work like the obedient dog you always wanted me to be. A wish granted to the dying.” He yelled at his one man audience.

The breathing merely intensified, the clothes rubbed against one another even faster, as the railing by the door groaned under the weight. Odell suddenly came to the realization that his boss might actually be having a heart attack, dropped the crate, and whipped around for a better look.

His eyes were met with a man donned in roughly the same garb as his boss, but his shirt was buttoned to the top, and the shoes he wore were in fact polished and appeared to be quite expensive. The hair he had was starting to thin, though he didn’t take any measure to avoid the inescapable fact. Regardless, his hair was a veritable nest above his head, as it was subject to the woman he was kissing and her searching hands.

Leaning against the railing, and putting considerable strain on it, was a woman in a knee length black dress used to accent her lengthy blonde hair. Her eyes were blue, but did not glow; there was no depth to her ring of color around her endless black pupils, they were merely there, only existing, no more or less than the shattered crate next to Odell.

The man’s hand began to search up the woman’s dress when Odell let out a loud cough. He removed his hand from her thigh but continued regardless. Odell’s workplace was already depressing and he didn’t find the allure in making it nauseating too. He opened his mouth to speak, and then noticed the bright gold band around the man’s finger, and despite searching around the woman’s ring finger he could find nothing of the sort.

“This is an alley, not a cheap motel.” He called, holding back his disgust.

The two finally disengaged as such and turned to face him. The woman looked back at the man and they both let out a smile. Odell shook his head and turned his back to them, and went back to get another crate. He heard footsteps behind which quickened within a few seconds. The man and woman ran by him, hand in hand with the woman leading. The same juvenile smile dominated both of their faces as they splashed carelessly through the dirty puddles. They turned right and vanished from Odell’s sight.

The front door of the restaurant swung open, its sound being drowned out in a sea of small talk and Italian music. Sharon stood, shaking, in the entrance of restaurant. It was a blessing she never wore makeup, as her salty tears now caked her whole face and threatened to smear anything in its way. Conventionally, her tears would have started at her eyes and made their way to her jaw line in a polite, neat stream but she was constantly rubbing her face to try and wake herself from the reality she still believed to be a dream. A waiter greeted her with a polite smile.

“Good evening ma’am! A reservation perhaps? A last name please.” He searched.

“Phillips.” She composed herself, though her physical appearance remained unchanged.

The waiter eyed her subtly and then continued politely as before. “Your husband?”

“No.” She replied concisely, though still politely.

Another subtle glance and the waiter noticed a red mark around her fourth finger where a ring had hastily been taken off not long ago.

“Phillips?” He inquired rhetorically, and then checked the sheet in his hand. “No, I’m afraid he’s not here.” He lied.

“I know he made a reservation.” Her tone started to show a little bite.

“I’m afraid he didn’t show up for that reservation, miss.” Another lie.

She shook her head and walked past him, diving into the sea of white tablecloths and formal clothing. She walked with a purpose, but without care, shoving the desert tray to the side, pushing people’s chairs in without asking to pass by them, never calling her husband’s name, but always searching. She noticed a table for two that had just been cleared, and approached the waiter still clearing the remains of the unfinished meals.

“Who sat here?” She asked, still closing the distance between them.

“A man and a woman, miss.” He went back to cleaning, feeling the conversation was over.

“Was the man dressed very plainly? All black and white?” She pressed. “And polished shoes?”

The man nodded, having no desire to drag out the conversation. She nudged the table a little to the side and searched for any door other than the one she came through. Her only option was the kitchen, so she pushed through the double swinging doors and into a completely different, albeit equally noisy environment. She ducked under large pots, slid past chefs who took the idea ‘never trust a skinny cook’ too face. She circled the kitchen for another door until she found a back door, still open, in the cold draught outside. She pushed it open, but grabbed it before it slammed into the side of the building, not wishing for anything more to be damaged.

Odell shook his head and turned around to yell at whoever had just passed through the door, sick of unwanted visitors that disturbed his already painful job. When he spun around though, he was met with the shell of a woman-frail and lost, yet carrying some zeal in her eyes that gave her a sense of grounding purpose. Odell’s heart softened instantly and he put his crate down lightly. The woman barely felt his presence, calloused to any gestures now, and searched the alleyway hopelessly, as if to find some magical exit, some escape from her prison. She stopped finally, and sat down on the crate Odell had just lowered. She rested the palm of her right hand on her temple as she tried to erase all the thoughts pacing about in her head.

“Are you looking for something?” Odell asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Someone.” She replied laconically.

He noted the mark of a ring that was once on her finger, just as the waiter had, and bit his lip. He didn’t want hurt her, but it seemed evident to him that she already knew some of the truth.

“Well who are you looking for?” He asked. Acting was never his forte.

“My husband, he said he was going to a business meeting and they call me to ask why he didn’t show up. I noticed his last call was to this place.”

“Well, no need to jump to conclusions, maybe he was meeting with somebody to arrange a surprise… or maybe something’s wrong he trying to keep you safe from.” Odell remained unconvincing.

“Do you know where he went?” She asked the question she had wanted to ask since the beginning.

Odell’s heart pounded in his head. “He turned left, and went down the street as far as I could see.” He lied. “He was alone.” He lied again.

The woman gave a barely audible thank you, added a pained smile, and rose off of the crate, and was soon along Odell’s path of misdirection.

Odell ran his hands over his hair, the bulbous extension of his body returning to form right after his hands trailed off. He exhaled slowly; picked up the same crate she had sat on, picked it up, and carried back to the door.

A few days later, Odell walked to work and was met with a Ford Crown Victoria in place of a mountain of orange crates. His hands were thankful, but his mind raced. Two police officers were resting their backs against the side of the car, legs crossed, clearly waiting for somebody. They faced the alley, so they could only be waiting for one person. Odell tried to put the pieces together but failed to do so, and decided to walk past them without saying anything. The silence was soon shattered.

“Odell Jones?”

“Yes sir.”

“Does this woman seem in any way familiar to you?” The other one produced a photograph of the same woman who was his last visitor in the alleyway a few days ago.

“Yes sir she does, she was in that alleyway only a few days ago. I talked to her briefly, gave her directions, and haven’t seen her since.”

The last statement caused the two officers to look at each other, nod, and then look at Odell.

“She was mugged two days ago, and beaten after resisting. She was in a neighborhood she never went to, and you gave her directions there.”

There was a pause, and then Odell realized the connection the two officers made, and his face went numb and his features lost all life and expressions.

“No-see, her husband was with-I was just doing the right thin-” He was cut short by the cold feeling of around his wrists. He kept trying to explain himself as they pushed his head down to clear the ceiling of the car’s back door. He looked back to the entrance of the alleyway, shaking his head, and saw the crates that were hiding on the other side of the Crown Victoria, and hundreds of clown smiled back at him.

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Empty Inside

May 3rd 2009 18:03

A silence engulfed the car, the kind that seems to amplify wind whipping past its thin metal shell, slapping its front and wrapping around its back. It provided evidence to passengers within that it is always colder, harsher, more dangerous outside than within this womb of airbags and seatbelts. It was the kind of silence that stifled any potential dialogue.

Billie kept her hands on her stomach, a peak so slight that it required some kind of tactile feedback to ensure its existence. Every time she lifted her hands and placed them gently on her stomach, she expected some kind of warmth for her shaking extremities, but every time she was met with the same sweaty skin that covered her whole body.

The world rolled underneath Martin’s wheels, the lines of the highway seeming to bend as they approached him. He constantly ran his hand over his face, closing his eyes, and when they opened he was met with a world just slightly different, barely noticeable, and it never failed to disappoint him.

He pulled into the parking space right by the building so gently that he never used brakes, and the car in fact rolled to a premature stop and required the slightest motion to be nudged into the space. He closed his door and went to the passenger’s side, but Billie was far ahead, already being enveloped behind the automatic sliding doors.

An uncomfortable moment ensued, the kind that leaves someone incapable to think, and regardless of the measures taken, is only alleviated by time. After a while, Martin wondered whether to go inside or to stay outside. Something told him that the matter was both completely related to him and not related to him at all. He opted to stand in the darkness between the streetlights, right outside of the automatic door that consumed Billie not too long ago.

Eventually, the doors spat her out, caked in tears. She ran right into Martin, not
seeing him in the darkness of the night, and only recognizing him when he placed a familiar hand on her back and embraced her. They stood there, between the fluorescent glows, as if to fill some overlooked void, something missing not only around them but within them both. The rocked back and forth, leaning into the wind and its changing paths, almost as if they were dancing. Martin looked through Billie’s eyes and watched them close as she rested her head on his shoulder and he closed his eyes as well. Soon after, Billie collapsed to the ground, and remained there, a permanent replacement to the empty void between the lights.

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A Life of its Own

May 3rd 2009 18:03

Spotlights flooded the stage with artificial light, entering every pore of the imperfect hardwood and permeating even microscopic cracks. Phillip did not so much as squint as he stared back into the audience that was invisible to him, veiled by the brilliance, and made a humble bow. He delicately rested his rear and legs on the stool, so deftly that the slight exhalation never resonated through the hall’s acoustics. Resting his hands on the ivory keys, he triggered an explosion of colorful sound that resonated through the ranks of people.
It comes as no surprise that pianists often make natural dancers. Phillip’s movements up and down the keyboard seemed to materialize at the ends of ten miniature feet. Each finger bent, curled, and even swayed as if having its own personality. Often, his two hands would have to cross over, and it was easy to perceive a slight wave between the two, a cordial greeting, a passing wave. His head, too, seemed independent of the other constituents of his body, and gave the impression that it was not being used at all, though this was no mechanized reproduction of a practiced motion. Each finger had a life of its own.
There was an odd dancing effect on the keys too. As they dove down and hammered each string in the piano’s body, they caught the light. A pseudo disco-ball effect pranced on the painted ceiling above. The cherubs that watched over the mesmerized people seemed to float about, rather than being transfixed, static, merely a representation of life. One look in their direction actually sparked fear, an odd belief that all of the holy things in their plump hands might shower down on the red velvet seats

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The View From Above

May 3rd 2009 18:02

The snowflake danced around him, unmotivated by the gusty wind, until it finally landed softly on his jeans. It didn’t melt. He didn’t expect it to. He sat on the park bench, accumulating mass one precious flake at a time, and looked like a snowdrift. The snow wasn’t welcome; it was March, that precarious middle ground between Winter and Spring, where the bulbs try to push their way through the softening ground. At least people couldn’t see him, looking like some kind of half covered, hyper-realistic statue done in some kind of art nouveau style.

A man sat down next to him and unsurprisingly paid little attention to his presence. He leafed through his newspaper with the kind of arbitrary glance that could only possibly absorb the headlines. After another cursory glance at the front page, there was a pause, as though he pondered further reading or some kind of disposal. The choice was never made, as his coronary artery failed, and turned his face as white as the snow that melted on his reddening cheeks

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