Cameron P. Bhushan
It was an ominous day for some, but a wonderful one for monsters like Mac, for surely, to him, Freudington was a collection of craziness; a place where anything was possible and conceivable to a conscious mind. Where am I, he muttered, as he roamed within a studio. The walls swallowed him despite his height. This place was twisted indeed! What other savage location built with essential materials of the 21st century had flesh hungry dry wall? Freudington fueled such questioning. The walls themselves seemed to project to an altitude of infinity, bending and twisting like mirrors in a hellish funhouse. Florescent lighting seemed to extend from an invisible source directly reflecting the pearl-grey cotton candy clouds hanging ever so low without the slightest tear from their black eyes. The only things between him and the bleak altitude were the multicolored backdrops and screens surrounding him, directing his every move. Maybe I stumbled into a portal, he thought. Either that, or I must have ingested a good bit of lysergic acid diethylamide impossible! I haven’t had a thing to fuel my body since I landed in this place! This place seemed to resonate like an Andy Warhol nightmare: another exhibit. However, there wasn’t much of an opportunity to view the passing screens within such a notorious set, or even to resist them for that matter. Mac couldn’t help but notice the invisible force guiding him against the grain of the cold, dank flooring, driving him into a gut-wrenched position just another part of this excursion, this Hippie Louvre. He wanted to leave an extremely difficult notion to comprehend let alone execute considering the fact that his underpinnings were set in perpetuity, as it were: glued and obliged to the flooring which seemed to be a one-hundred and eighty degree escalator of jumbled prescription. It would be like going against one-thousand-angry-defeated-drunkards rushing their way out from the stained super bowl stadium. Mac was a mouse in a maze, searching for his piece of cheese. The change of scenery (after 1/4th of a mile of inflicted direction) was swift in trade, from soup cans to starry nights, and other forms of pop-art/impressionistic displays: dinner scenes by Grn, and then onto abstractions by Jinks. It was by a rustic Italian villa when Mac charitably and madly replied, I’m lost lost within myself. The conveyor feverishly continued until its fever broke. A slower pace somewhat relieved his sweaty-brow, who, at this juncture, coupled the savory speed with that of a possible conclusion, a final destination an epistemology. It just might have intended for a piece of brie, or sharp cheddar, but no: Mac now had the opportunity to view various monsters stationed behind mysterious smokescreens. Good God! he moaned. From Dali to an underground act of Graumans Chinese Theater! The figures were bald shadows covered in smooth silk stockings, exercising, or rather, performing unjustified ballet acts choreography from Nijinskys Rite of Spring?
Moving onward, Mac (in good standing with other smokescreens) now passed one which was unknown in comparison to the previous acts. Two shadows (both male) were in close quarters with one-another, arguing and yelling at each other. One was screeching in Spanish while the other barked Cop’s English. Damn that business! Mac exclaimed, as the two martyrs carried on. Those scoundrels owe me restitution for the damages! The feudalists had struck a horrible chord of rancor in Mac’s mind, surely in the wrong place at the wrong time. A week prior to his vagrancy journey, the vagabond had left his car in the care of an interior cleaning trade only to receive it with scrapes, bruises, and a decrease in gas mileage without the slightest dewdrop of hospitality from the cop-like proprietor and his Mexican cohort. Mac (who’s guided, in most cases, by principle and moral) was more than willing to obliviously continue forward, full of fury. Suddenly, the conveyor belt discontinued and Mac was left to his own devices set for an unaccompanied promenade through the dark abyss which Freudington so graciously offered. Independent-minded, his awareness came back upon arrival. Mac had made his way through the labyrinth from the Romantic period, the summer of love, the Post-modern and the raucous-pirates, only to stumble upon a new snow. As he rounded an unknown corner, cloaked in bright white, to his astonishment, the good doctor stood as if waiting wearing Einstein’s shoes within Napoleons height as proud as a peacock, with his arms extended and a wide smile on his face. Dad! he cried, as the two embraced. Hello Mac I have something for you.But dad, what are you doing here, what am I doing here what’s going on? Without answering his son, Dr. C.B. reached for a steel coat rack directly behind him and selecting a traditional long-sleeved Christian Dior dress shirt of stale white with French cuffs, implored, Please. Try this one. I don’t think the neck will fit as well as I’d assumed, but if you don’t mind, it wouldn’t hurt to try You’ve grown quite fast! Well onward and upward! The good doctor laughed with full volume. Mac’s countenance was nostalgic; an amalgam of catastrophe, sanctuary homespun. Thanks dad. Mac took his spiritually-stale shirt off of its hanger and began to unbutton. Thunderstruck, they came those notes. They reverberated from the hippocampus to the amygdala, chirring theta waves piecemeal within Mac’s skull-capped-prison Mozart’s Masonic Funeral Music K. 477echoing. Now Mac, I don’t want you to worry. The humble expression abandoned the good doctor’s face, and as it went, an expression of fortitude replaced the boy-like laugh line as he continued. I’m going to the Johns Hopkins Hospital tomorrow morning for heart surgery and I will not be back for a few days. It is a god-awful procedure, but I have no choice and as much as I’d love to see your face, I’d rather you didn’t visit until I’m in recovery. In the meantime But dad, The good doctor continued. I’d like for you to collect the mail for me. Placing his life-giving hand in his jacket pocket, he produced a box key. As he handed it over a look of horror took over his demeanor. Mac’s eyes bulged like bloody plums. What is it Mac? What is the matter? He began shaking with hypothermia as a steady stream of salt water flowed from the plum’s crevices, clinging to every tributary alongside his face. Father, he cried choking on tears. He lifted his head from his father’s chest. Now holding his father firmly by his shoulders, grasping for dear life, Mac met his fathers wholesome eyes for what seemed like eternity as he undesirably and forcefully-whispered Dad I’m so sorry dad, but you didn’t survive the surgery.
A flash of warm fire danced across the eyes. Within a heartbeat, the eyelids wiggled, and then parted slightly. A soft dew of morning light cut its way through his bedroom shades. Exposed, the courageous brown eyes (like those of a turtle’s, revealing its head with pure confidence) came alive to view the sequence 9:30a.m across the plastic screen. His brain bled, throbbing, unable to cope with the unbearable ringing of the beast. With torque force, he raised his left arm and then brought it crashing down on the villainous thing murdering it, savagely. Mac made his way out of bed, late for class.
I’m untouched, undone, unraveled, unlocked.
Reach for me under auburn autumn heat,
brick-free euphoria and ticking clocks.
Glorious colors I’m planning to seek.
You’re unrefined, uncontained, and dancing.
I’m reaching above satin soft tendrils,
traced lullabies and envy hued glances.
Perfect peach radiance and looks to kill.
Quiet nostalgia tucked in knapsacks,
picked dandelions behind tiny ears,
I’m slipping in between your sidewalk cracks,
I’m refusing to struggle, to break free.
You see, gentle man, you are subtlety,
wrapped up in carnation stems and warm tea.
In this small town
there are no exclamation points
no question marks
only hard periods
slammed on blank pages
In this small town
we require certainty
a guaranteed conviction
of what is
what is left of what is
but the assurance of dotted i’s
the slow humped backs of m’d
or the parallel structure of each
in here and out there
Because we are neutral
screaming the same stale text
of what is
in this small town
And sometimes what is is enough
And sometimes what is
dips into the fresh ink
of what isn’t
plugging the pages
with meta Is
with what isn’t
with what isn’t
Her roots have grown through
scattered across wild fields,
amid lavish lavender
and woven stone,
she will find her home.
For willingly she does come
and faintly will she go,
her will is the will of the sun
ten thousand times ago.
And within her epic eyes
lie dormant wings,
As a robustious wail waits,
for her to breathe out with a
Birth of flight!
A transformation of self.
I grow feathers angelic
From my back flesh
Feather, by feather, by feather, by feather.
There is no pain from this sprouting
Only the feeling of pressure.
Now, a newly winged being ready for flight
My arms stretching from wing to silver wing.
The blurry flap of feathers rolls up the air and
Feathery finger tips split like cut felt.
Curled on the edge of a precipice,
Feet muscles pop out pink bulges as
I launch upward and feathers
Whisper sharply like reeds in a breeze;
The launch is streamline.
Flight, sublime feeling of Swoop,
Arched back into frosty winds,
Wind through pink fingers and silver feathers,
Dark, blotted shadow- movement
Coating cliff rocks below.
My feet dangle over dark forests and green fields.
No longer will earth’s embrace
Pinch my flesh.