More writing from Chris Cunningham can be found at:

http://savageheavens.blogspot.com/ 

a bleeding morning

the sun

begins its ugly crawl

from the stinking gutters

of night,

pouring sick fire

upon

the victims.

the powerless.

a miserable repetition,

a minor torture

with no release.

another bleeding morning

and

a dangerous wind blows.

there are shapes moving

behind drawn shades

and no willing volunteers.

days made

for quiet

revolution

in the worsening storm.

so low you can see their faces

watching a

deep blue black

thunderstorm

roil the

iridescent sky,

there is

a

plane banking

hard hard

left, turning

east out of its path

running fast

and away from

the knife edges of

electricity cutting

the seams

of the storm.

the engines whine loud

enough to hear

from the ground,

and the plane

is so low

you can see the terrified

faces of those

who have no control

over anything:

not the weather,

the air, the ride,

the big tight turn east,

the coming sheets of

icy rain,

where they are going.

and then it is

overhead,

and then it is gone,

pushing on higher

in hopes of outrunning

that which is implacable.

and then,

the

rain.

and the ride home

in the dark of

storefront alcoves

where streetlights cannot penetrate,

human shapes gather

throwing dice.

thru the gutter

roll

two hookers

and a lady pushing

a baby carriage

with no

baby to be seen.

old Styrofoam cups

and

the shouts of

hopeless gamblers,

a broken widow

and

a missing shoe.

car tires

move

carefully

between cracks

in the surface of the road

and hot wind

seeps thru the window

like

blood into thick gauze.

it

is

slow going,

the ride home.

            I throw

            my hands up,

            let dice fall

            into the night,

knowing there are never any winners

who stay that way.

the curb

Jim and Teardrop sat on the curb drinking generic mouthwash from a large plastic jug.  they passed it back and forth, quickly, until it was gone.  Jim tossed it to the side after holding it up to the light, letting the sunshine filter thru the thin film of alcohol tinted green residue.  it plunked in the asphalt dust.  they felt pretty good sitting there on the curb.  Jim was dying of bone cancer, had lost forty eight pounds in the last two months.  Teardrop said that Jim was like a father to him.  Jim was around sixty.  maybe sixty three.  Teardrop probably in his forties.  mid to late.  he wore a ragged rainbow striped ballcap tilted dangerously to one side.  Jim wore a shapeless grey workshirt, open and unbuttoned to where you could see green and black ink tattoos, the jailhouse or army kind, all over his scarred chest.  his beard was thick and dirty.  his eyes were grey and electric.  Teardrop often looked over at him as they sat on the curb in the sunshine in the afternoon. their breath smelled like mint.  Teardrop wondered what he would do for something to drink.  sometimes Jim’s guts couldn’t take more than a coke.  at least it wasn’t too hot where they were.

Water Glass

            He sat there thinking about cold fruit as the sun was coming up.  He thought about a plate of cold fruit.  It was almost dawn.  He sat in a chair next to the window where he could watch the black turn blue.  His mouth was dry and he wanted something.  The television nearby was tuned to a news channel with the sound down.  He sat in his chair with the house quiet all around him.  There was only the flickering t.v. and the dawn.

            He thought most about cold, white, seedless grapes.  He used to put them on a glass plate and put the plate in the freezer until the grapes were not quite frozen.  They would turn pale and frosted, but the insides would stay soft enough to bite through.  He thought about all the times he’d had those frozen white grapes, the good times when he’d eaten them.  He remembered all kinds of good times, most of them careworn and weathered like old photographs.  Times change, he thought.  People get lost.  And sometimes people forget.  It was pretty simple.  Then, he thought about cold Granny Smith apples, sliced and dipped in peanut butter.  Chilled plums, waxy and purple.  Frozen blueberries on cold cereal with milk.  Strawberries with whipped cream.  It was almost wishing, there by the television alone.  He had water in the fridge, and he thought, some cheese, maybe a few condiments.  He knew there was nothing else.

            He watched the room get lighter as the day began.  He could hear kids walking to the school bus stop outside.  If he turned his head, he could see them walking up the street in a little huddle.  If he turned his head, he could watch the sun rise. The news, all of it, everything was relentless as he sat there thinking about cold fruit.  Things were never easy, he figured.  The truly beautiful things like moments of quiet bathed in the blue white dawn, like everyone’s kids walking slowly in the half-light.  Truly beautiful things were simple and attainable, but never easy.

            He got up from the chair for a glass of water and stubbed his toe, hard, on the edge of the coffee table.

            “Shit,” he said.  His voice sounded very loud in the empty house. 

            He got his glass of water and sat back down, rubbing his toe.  Someone was blowing their car horn outside.  He listened to the sound.  It was the only sound anywhere.  He rubbed his big toe.  He had forgotten about the plate of cold fruit.

            The t.v. picture shook.  The horn stopped blowing.  Things like this were never easy.

Chris Cunningham

Last update : 27-04-2007 13:51

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