'Murkami Moments' & 'The air here seems to have weight'

Murakami Moments

all is lowercase

i am thinking of translation

not pen and paper but of heart and mind

how my i becomes your i

i think of doors and how i do not know what is going on there if i do not see it.

inferences are just lies those who do not know tell themselves

some things we should not know

my i tells me a ghost walks beyond that door it is a great dark thing made of stuff more pure than us

i cannot tell if it is aware of us. most of us are not aware of ourselves so why would it even bother

i think the cats see it

sometimes they run

sometimes they are curious

they are a lot like us

i do not think it exists in your i i think that is sad but sad things are beautiful right

i think of your i just beyond that door passing through to tell me that truth

we share the gravity of meaning-making

the responsibility of forging something together

it is like pounding a triangle shaped object into a square shaped hole

inevitably pieces break off.

things lost translation

are in

your i may never see the ghost my i will never know your truth but in that there is a melancholy kind of beauty

it is sad but at least we try

all is lower case

The air here almost seems to have weight.

The air here almost seems to have weight.

A miasma not of death but of decay.

The light is a stark gray. Not quite white but luminescent in a sterilized way. Too bright, too clean for the eyes to be comfortable.

A stained sink sits uneven on the wall and I place both my hands on the porcelain not bothering to worry about the discolored areas.

The mirror is spotted with specks of toothpaste and spit

and hopefully that’s all.

I don’t know how I got here but I feel bleary.

Like I just woke from a dream and the dream still has its fingers on the corners of my eyes pulling me

back towards the Land of Nod.

My skin feels too tight. I look back at myself discolored and sagging like a half-deflated balloon.

My chest is heavy with post-nasal drip and I spit, lean down to wash my hands, then cup the water and raise it to my face. I dry myself on my shirt and that’s when I hear the clink.

It is a sound like a C7 on a piano. A white tooth bounces around the rust colored porcelain barely avoiding the drain.

I stare,

pick it up, and then look in the mirror as more teeth begin to tumble from my mouth.

There is no horror here. No sudden thought that this is wrong.

It just is what is.

I watch as a few tumble down the drain

and the others bounce and I think:

There goes sunflowers and summer,

winter and haunted nights,

my first laugh and my last laugh.

The clink, clink, clink, continues.

It is almost beautiful.

It is like the seeing a fine and well manicured lawn and appreciating the beauty humans cultivate but

knowing that we had to behead all that grass and all those dandelions to do it.

I can imagine what these teeth would look like if I didn’t brush them for a long time.

I imagine the dull red-brown of the porcelain creeping its way up the teeth to their roots and them falling

like autumn leaves.

I can almost smell that autumn air that reminds me of walking down Locust street after class.

It was a time to listen to music and sort out my thoughts. Detangling them like I detangle my curls, and

while much of this imagery reaches out towards and nearly grasps decay it also reminds me that I do the small things like bathing and eating and breathing and all it takes for flowers to bloom is a little love and care.

I look down again and the sink is now empty. The mirror is still filthy and my skin still feels tight but my

smile is white and the room

f a

d e

s

Ian Brunner is a Buffalo born and based writer/Freelance Editor. He is the author of the poetry collection: Ruminations published by the CWP Collective. He has been published in Flash of Dark, Life as It Happens: A Nerdfighter Poetry Book, The Novice Writer, The Sirens' Call , Blue Pages Journal, Ghost City Press, and Riggwelter Press.

He can be found at Facebook.Com/IanBrunnersWriting, IanBrunner.Tumblr.Com, and Twitter.Com/MadRadIan