Dialect. By Wayne H.W Wolfson
I stood in the window.
I am a thinker.
What was I supposed to say?
Shhh...Don't ruin it, let me think.
At my feet broken glass, odds and ends of an unfinished symphony.
A circle, a frayed imitation leather belt coiled in upon itself.
The answer to infinity.
Let me think.
Let me think it's forever.
Time has made me tough, life has made me cruel.
Why can't I think of anything? Why did she say I sculpted words as if it were a bad thing?
She knew from the beginning.
Now she too stands in the window.
The sun illuminates her from the side.
Ears, thin webbing of veins visible.
The wings of a bat. Shhh...I'm thinking.
I want to be a Mahler, the new Mahler.
A symphony all of breaking glass, sobs and sighs.
The sobs sound like the rain, the rain like applause.
The ovation, the shards of glass not taken for souvenirs are swept up and all is forgiven.
There's a while until the next performance. Killing time with cocktail assassins. Long dried flowers faded, and pressed between the pages of her diary.
The things we must do to survive.
Inspiration is a whole other problem.
The trick is to realize what is what. Not to regret, but not to enjoy it too much either.
My cane has a notch on it for every one of these unavoidable incidences.
Invisible to the naked eye, the surface actually appears shiny and smooth.
All is as it should be? Invisible to the naked eye, unless you happen to be a saint.
There are no new saints. And besides they are all lonely and would be happy for the company.
No, no new saint will rat me out. For the price of a drink and a little conversation they too become an accomplice. I used to have to whisper. And now it makes sense to be fiercely holy.
Drunk and lonely. Drunk and holy.
More of Winamop's stories
© Wayne H. W Wolfson 2004