beautiful sleep.....
the cup sits there...resting, kneeling, peacefully pacifying the room. the ice slowly blending with the all too familiar drink, and the glass sparkling as more and more raindrops drip through the pores and gather on the outside of the drink. the water ring on the old wooden nightstand continues to grow larger and larger. a crazy fly drowning in the mixture of the drink is drowning high. around the glass there is an ashtray and a now soaking little cylinder roll: a carefully creased and lovingly rolled bill of benjamin franklin. his face still embaced with a languid smile and wise eyes. as he continues to watch over this room, his face almost seems to change. his face almost seems to wonder and to ask, but instead only watches as his country changes and has now become so enraptured in his presence that he almost cracks a smile, and he almost sheds a tear, but, of course, he doesn't. his head's still mostly bald and white. his face is now laced with silky white and his clothes are stained with the powder. he sees himself on the floor, in the ashtray, in the couch cushions, and in many wallets, but he doesn't say anything. he just watches. the smiling mother near mr. franklin almost laughs at him, but she is almost brought to tears by the shadow on the wall, but realizes she is helpless and just peers on all sides of her frame. her pose is struck and she will not move. mom just gazes at the room with her smile: bright and warm and caressing to the eye. although she sometimes watches the desk because she figures she isn't wanted. her face must be too painful so she is hidden. she decides that if her face is too painful to look at, then she probably doesn't want to watch the room anyway. she knows ben is always there..
this room continually seems to swell in anguish and shrink in sanity: a constant struggle which somehow balances the activities in the room. the fireplace has been crackling for the past three hours. the crazy little yellow bird pops out periodically to tell it to be quiet. everytime he crows at the fire he adds another squawk to get his point across. i believed he started around seven and just now squealed ten times at that infernal fire. that fire ravishing upon my skin like the blazes of hell. the logs, red hot and gray, fall apart sometimes until they are dust and ash. falling till they smother and breathe their last and lay in pieces in despair and hopelessness. falling till they are sick of living and sick of burning, they quit with a blaze of smoke which lingers into the dismal room unnoticed. the smoke seems to get high in the room. it swims in circles drunkenly trying to find a place to go. swirling in every direction and sometimes seeming to make little shapes which cause the ashes to grimace a little at what their offspring have done. then the ashes fall into a deep cold slumber with that little smile glued on their face.
the small porcelain china dolls cough as the drunken smoke wanders towards them. they know everything. they are most interested now though in not what is going on, but what isn't happening. they watched that cute little looped rope with its twelve rings sway back and forth from the ceiling all day long, continually swaying because of the wind from the window. and as the day progressed they made a game with it. they used to love to guess about how many times it would swing before the wind would die down, or how many times it would have to swing before that cranky bird would yell at ti to stop. but it never did, of course. no one pays attention to that bird. but lately the rope doesn't want to swing, and all their fun has been spoiled to boredom as the past three hours they just watch it lightly sway back and forth in an even-pulsating motion. the rope is pulled tight so it can't swing high, and it makes the ceiling squeak which makes the bird crazy. but how can he be happy if his house is always nailed to the wall near that lovely body. the rope is just barely moving with a continually slowing drag. the china dolls want to frown because their game is over and now there is also no one to relight the fire, but, of course, they don't. maybe he thought that playing with the rope was more fun, but he doesn't ever laugh or do anything. he just hangs there enjoying the rope, and now the china dolls are getting cold. so they just freeze and keep thinking "how unfair."
(
geocities.com/timwylie)