''Just to think it all began on an uneventful morn...''

[glass onion]

Just to tell a story – yellow truck – smile smile. A woman's skin, mountainous, snow covered lungs – breathe in breathe in. The yellow truck vanishes through green light allowances and I'm stuck on a frosted pavement with pigeons and my own reflection in the shop window. My angry eyebrows and question mark posture in the elements of November – I hang crookedly over the air. The air of the November morning is ground crystal and the chill passes through my mouth and stabs the back of my neck causing spine jolt spasms and un-asked for exclamations. A school boy spits. Another throws his empty coke can to the ground. It rolls across the road until it is crushed by the wheels of a sad looking bus. The flat can appears as a mirror in the road, shining under the sun in the filtered frosted air; Alice's looking glass, dropped and forgotten as she runs to catch her bus. Forgetting the gateway to another world for a second, I cross the road and witness trees bowing menacingly to touch the head of the dog that grows between the hollowed shoulder blades on my stretched-to-its-limit back. Their inky fingers trace ribbons across my face as the seaweed earth spirals in confusion for the morning the morning. The yellow truck reappears, more exhausted now. Sputtering sinister green sinewy powders into the air – the air clogged with sun and frost and tense commuters and nervous crysticles and menacing trees inked out for winter in blacks and deep purples… the yellow truck stop-starts at the red light – juttering sputtering – aggressive sex on an old bed. At the other end of the overgrown path an upturned bench lies in the grass. It appears like a church pew discarded in the cold – just another row of people who realised the lies they've been told. I kick the bench's back to watch the symphonic choreography of slack frost powders fluttering sharply to the ground. At that moment, a church steeple grew too high and punctured the faded blue sky. The hole let in the night and flooded the senses with a forgotten shadow of a deeper evening sleep than I've ever known. Suddenly the ambers appeared and with them, the stars. The yellow truck melted into the tarmac and any image of a woman that I had just faded – breathed out like a silent song.

[judih]

reading this as allen ginsberg is speaking of 'Neal Cassady's Ashes'. Perfect match. welcome, Glass Onion.

[glass onion]

thank you judih

ginsberg and me in the one breath. I can live with that.

[mnaz]

you've made me happy,
and depressed me so well.

"There is no Santa Claus"...
a failed campaign utterance from '92,
as if I remember.

[mousey1]

Wonderful writing from start to finish. Very intricate and weaving. So much to wrap a mind around...so very very much.

"Breathed out like a silent song."

[stilltrucking]

I been reading your story for about a week now, nothing much I can say after judih comments, except I hope you have a hard copy of it. You remind of another writer here. He writes something that I remember for years, and when I ask him about reading it again. He tells me it was all spontaneous and he never saved it, and i can't find it on litkicks anymore.



I saved a copy of it in msword, all 395 words. Thanks for a couple of minutes of reading oblivion.

[hester_prynne]

"look into a glass onion...
boomp boomp boomp...
I' tol you bout strawberry fee elds.....
you know the place where nuthin is ree ul..."

I dig this....
H

[glass onion]

thank you for reading and responding to this

lovely people.