chameleon Between the crinkly yellowed leaves of curving cursive drawn in blood, a whisp of green, a blade of grass inhales the soot and drinks the dust. It strains and grows, it curls and grasps, it trembles gingerly, it throbs, and kisses gently every sign inscribed within the sunset tome. The shoot of spring does not revolt against its cellared dusky flat, but, in the shades, between the cracks, inside the crumbling floor’s cement, it blossoms like the painted fan of a flamenco-tapping skirt that brushes, sweeps, unfolds, unfurls, and chisels off the dust, the blood, till all is broken, cracked, rebuilt. No more the tome, nor room, nor roof, nor bars, nor floors, nor stifling walls, no more of green, the stalk is stripped, undressed unwillingly by force of curiosity and trust that drove its search for airy light. Against its will, but not at all: left bare by choice – its own decree, its own decision to strip the husk – immaculate-conceived design. And once the husk is gone, so too the stalk, the blade, the shoot of grass, is not, nor ever was, nor will – as if it never sung its breath and, like a thousand Jericho pipes, its roots did not incise my skin and grow within, from outside in, from inside out, surrounding, drowned in fluids of my private thoughts. Where mind expected ruins to rise, there are no stones, no dust, nor waste. Instead, between invisible leaves, the coloured petals of the song intoned by the vanishing stalk, there is an eye, a playful pose, the movement of a curious glance, and trembling rainbow’s naked skin. They grasp and capture, bind and trap, imprisoning me in their cells of fluid jails of infinite hues, until, with flustered lightning blur, the eye, the pose, the glance are gone. Like addict caged, with mounting pain, I search, I find, I lose, I strain. I am considered, watched, appraised, rewritten, given birth, reborn in stillness fueled by moving words, in silence of speechless motion. Bemused, a whisper gently strokes the tender sinews of my ear. Those devilish, damned and hallowed ghosts – that rainbow eye, that curious glance – again they flare and flee, and spark, and all I feel are lassoed darts around my feet, my arms, my chest. A perfect predator and prey, unwinnable reward, a threat beyond the ambit of my strength, the eye, the glance encircle my will. At once defiant and paralyzed, I am afraid to have the strength to stand my ground. I relent, submit to her – and so does she succumb and yield to my defeat, chameleon, but always true.
Posted on: Tue, 27 Aug 2013 07:21:54 +0000