the serpentines

to and perhaps from night stations, i carry a virus, a troubled prolonging of sleep, the wandering body caught unawares in deep blank place.
If they were struck down, i did not hear it. but see-
the women known as mother and sister – emerging from a house I do not know,
into scared night, into a backyard of dense wood and orange lights
see them slowly stumbling, burdened, down the steps
a part of me is projected through cell signals, into white flouro dispatch static, talking to handlers
reciting medical histories, implants, surgical maps on old skin
part of me is studying the mother: red gash on lip (or forehead)
a cut tongue plastered with beige bandage
mouth agape, row of teeth on pink gums, flipping right to left to right like a page
jaw dislocated
sister could not catch her in time, sister slipped on bathroom water, passing out, coming to again
sister thumping her chest with blame (I have to tell her it isn’t her fault)
there is no pain anywhere among accidents
disconnect white headphones, it was time to enter clinical
This I understand – a live satellite broadcast will be missed at 8pm
This I experience – a projection to festival grounds, somewhere not on this plane
This is see – the domed tent, two men and a woman on a beach, touched by northern lights, neon radiation blue, electronic musicians walking through nebulascapes
night highway as gordian knot, an elevated serpentine coil
I hunt the hunter. a cat and a mouse
the taunter is a remote ghost in cell signals (is he also a presence in rearview / backseats?)
hushed conversations lost in vague
I see gas station lights like a beacon, I signal, I turn, something tells me he’s there
keep him on the line, catch him reflected in glass doors of entrances and exits
watch for the gas man holding a phone, watch for the man in the beige shirt, in the grey pants
he is the causer of accidents, the stealer of lights, the hunter at the festival
what he will do and to whom and how many, teh how and when, is not shown
but he is there, a threat in waiting
he’s been there before, a presence in the head, at crime scenes after the fact, leaving signatures, signs, taunts
he is there if your eye is fast enough
he teases you with glimpses, then gone again from one fugitive night into many
you can hardly remember his voice, his face, his whereabouts
near or far, it is not known
labyrinth highway as gordian knot, unbroken
I re-gather on the second floor of the mansion
trails gone cold. I wait with the others
I wait for the next cycle, the next signal, the next call, the next scene
#dailywriting2016day19 #dailywriting2016 #dailywriting, #dailypoetry, #irvingpaulpereira #oneiricnovel

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s