Sebastian can’t sleep
restless arms and legs
stretched across the couch
he feels the cross beam’s steel
beneath him,
familiar.
The TV keeps him company
in the quiet shifting house,
pulling him through the night
into the next;
identical.
melancholy.
He climbs the stairs sometimes
to investigate strange sounds,
or check on Theo and his little boy
curled up on the bed
in the shape of a question mark.
Sebastian sits next to Francis as he talks to the DJ, he wiggles his fingers behind his back to Amelia greeting her as she enters the bar. Unexpectedly, she embraces him from behind, pressing her cheek against him. He holds her hand struck by the sudden closeness, the tender familiarity with which they touch. neither pull away; his thumb rubbing against her palm and then wrist; as they breath, intimate somehow alone below or above waves of synth pop or Kraftwerk. As Francis’ attention finds Amelia, the moment breaks, world rushing back in, a film of flimsy second hand conversations settling in the space between them.
………..
Francis runs across the street to seven eleven to buy smokes, and they talk. Sebastian stumbling thru his idiot swedish; buying them both another cup of tea; ordering a single espresso for Francis’ return. He watches her eyes hover between the lip of the glass and the fuzzy edges of her bangs; she balances her nose on the edge of the glass, staring off into space. He asks her where she is; t which she replies “mostly here”. He asks “the other fifteen precent?” she smiles knowingly. “space” he says, “yeah, ok”.
He tells her that she’s crazy; and she says “yes, but just enough to work” he laughs. They talks about ritual. tea and the cinema, whiskey. She talks about her mother and father; her mother talking, ceaseless, never reaching a point. Her father, in and out of the hospital mercurial. His most recent visit. Talking to people, laughing, swimming.
Her face reflects his melancholy sense of loneliness.
she seems equally lost; or maybe just to him with his anglophile social retardation and awkward idiot savant child speak.
…………
They walk down Linne, the three of them: Amelia, Francis and Sebastian. Francis stopping at every window in mock excitement; aglow with dreams of whatever ridiculous things he sees; pillow case, vacuum, buda statue. He makes a joke of the reoccurring patterns. A buda statue in every window. Amelia pokes fun saying “it’s a sect, I’m afraid to go to the salon here for fear that they will cut my hair” pointing “like that”. Sebastian says little, unable to keep up with such abstract shadings as sarcasm. he walks a step behind; laughing, he lets his shoulders rub against her as they walk.
In some alternate universe he imagines them, alone walking close, her high heels clicking against the cobblestone sidewalks of a mirror street.
………….
they stare out at the harbor, cruise ships like space vessles, jutting angular out of the cold still water. Francis tells a story while Sebastian looks out at the markers flickering lights; turning, he catches Amelia’s eyes; a knowing smile;
…………..
they walk back towards Jarntorget, and Francis digs an insta-matic camera out of his pocket. Sebastian leans back into her, again cheek to cheek as Francis cajoules them demanding a pose under the sharp street light. Sebastian whispers to her close “c’mon give us a smile”. the camera clicks. a touch. frozen.
…………..
they walk down andra long gatan now. one block, past Jazza and a few old rummy’s drinking in the dark. an abandoned drum kit half erected or demolished beyond the plate glass window a fat lazy zoo animal. they stop at the far end of the street, next to a clothing store. leather and chains, a wall of provacative high heels and boots with shiny stainless steel stems. Francis freestyles something witty and idle. Sebastian rubs his knuckles in the cold ocean air. She tells them, she’ll go up now, she only lives right around the corner. She tells Sebastian that the second floor window around the corner is her’s; He could throw stones at it. She hugs them both goodnight and they walk off into the night. Francis a lean shadow towering at his side, he imagines coming back later while Francis sleeps.
Brandon stares out the bay window
cold clouds drifting
says his favorite tree is the pine tree in the front yard
because the leaves never fall
I watch the tiny convulsions
of the respirator puffing
rocking you to sleep
hand held limp;
My first night on call
I sat shotgun in the hearse
window rolled down
darkness caressing my face
nicked and still bleeding.
That first dead girl was like you
my own age.
Was you.
Laying still,
blankets pulled down around her feet
childlike naked ankles.
So pale like you.
The gloves:
white latex
the illusion of distance.
Summer ebbs, meloncholy night
tying shoelaces
the hush of the funeral.
my breath
in your ear
impossible
to know
what is you
what is me
fingers pulsing
between your legs
a second
heartbeat
I remember what it was
to be loved by you, held as precious
the alien way in which you could see
the details of everyday
and define them
in the strange methods of your arrangement;
a few gray hairs whisper now
from my beard and temples,
but the face doesn’t speak my age
that cold thing in me
a cosmonaut staring back at the earth
a memory
in the blackness that surrounds everything
circular movements
and silence
Theo panic stricken
screaming down the stairs
pulling me from sleep:
I have to go—I need to go
something happened at the hospital.
He rushes out the door,
car speeding off down the street
dark morning sky
snow and stillness,
the gurgling sound of the fish tank.
One fish swimming alone.
