Φ

Hands rest 

In pockets,

Fingers pinch

An inseam – let go 

And secure 

Flesh for fabric.

(where has the time gone?)

Faith in 

Corporeal 

Structures, categorizes 

Conscious content 

To relay another happenstance

And create the moment,

Despite what it’s not. 

Foregoing another minute,

Quiet breaks…

Piano melodies inhabit vibrations,

Teasing the eyes to distinguish truth 

From invisible operations. Voices replace

A car engine gone mute. 

Among the top air,

Human dialogue performs

Like gibberish,

Dividing purpose 

To give meaning 

To those in low air.

Money wrinkles.

Time is spent. 

Earth cashes out

Another moment,

Making little use

Of them all.

Body:

Harmony equivocates from lack thereof, rectified by cell-phone silence, the device atop my jutting hip bone, curtained in flesh, hair and cotton.  

I encounter similar vibrations, examining window glass pummeled with snow, testing the sash’s hug. Inside the showroom headless mannequins congregate, hold hands on hips, bend wrinkles in 50 dollar, of the moment, fabric. A mother escorting her son, pauses before a rack of red sweaters. She pinches the tip of the sleeve and rubs the material between her fingers. Her son wanders off, stands before a headless mannequin and surveys its plastic frame from bottom to top. A car approaches a parking spot behind me. Its headlights divide my stare by illuminating a sheen onto the glass. I see the boy dressed in gold vibrations and the mother notices her son’s absence. Her brow stretches to exhibit panic, but it’s quickly relieved as the boy returns, in the normal light, without headlights, next to a headless mannequin promising aesthetic balance, to save face.

I separate from this moment, saunter down the sidewalk, create footprints in the snow. A woman is walking towards me with her German-shepard-husky-hybrid fastened to a leash. He’s pulling her along. The dog struggles against the rope’s limitations and chokes himself. Together we meet in the middle of the block. Her dog sniffs my crotch. I notice booties strapped around the dog’s feet. 

“Are those for when he gets cold?” I ask. 

“No.” She responds. “He has separation anxiety. He claws at the door until his paw’s bleed.” 

I crouch and pet the dog, “I read about a woman in Brazil who did the same thing when she was buried alive.” I say. 

The woman tugs on the leash, motioning for her and the pet to take their leave. 

“Uh, have a good evening.” She says. 

Published by akcola

AK Cola is a pop-culture war veteran.

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