matt pond PA

August 2, 2018

Primitive Patterns 3.

“Love in an Elevator” whistles through sunburnt reeds. Clouds and spanish moss swim along as I descend. I’ve been falling slowly like Alice Liddel.

I pass trees clinging to broken rocks with desperate roots. Red-tailed hawks cast cold looks from prehistoric bookshelf cliffs. Cupcakes, champagne bottles and blue jeans hang along the edges, the rubble of an extinct inflight party, the afterthoughts of the aftermath, of all the fun that fell before me.

I’m traveling the same speed as a lazy splash, I see my expressionless face, fish-eyed in the watery curve. I often feel blank falling through the times but I have not given up.

Eager for the ending, blunt kitchen knives and ball point pens divebomb past my ears. Impatient magazines mimic seagulls, flapping and swooping below. The chaos around me shifts into a dead sea lull, discarded cotton balls and pigeon feathers giggle and swirl, yet I calmly maintain the same speed. As long as the gentle, pulsing thrills continue to accumulate, the soul has enough fuel to reach the ultimate goal.

I am down with this course and the universal coordinates. Gravity, reality, the span of a life, the spin of a sycamore seed. In order to wholly hear the music play, the needle has to drop. (I often feel blank falling through the times but I have not given up.)