Words over the City
I sit in the pool of quiet, waiting for the muse. I catch a glimpse and I am after it, hurrying down flights of stairs, searching in the sub-sub basement, near the boilers and heating ducts in the laundry room of the grand old hotel, sliding over the slick tiled floor. I try to keep pace. Then I am in a crowded corridor and I see a waitress, a black woman with dark, liquid eyes. "Are you my muse?" I question her with mine, but she just glances at me and looks away. I hurry on in frantic need exiting through a revolving door onto Main Street, bustling with shoppers. Up ahead, I know I see her. That must be her in the red high heels , the tailored black slacks and the red wool vest, or... is it the child in the stroller? The old man standing by the bridge watching the water of the river flow by with his elbow on the railing and the dreamy vacancy in his gaze?
I can see,now, that I have been too obsessed. The muse, like a lover, can never be posessed. It comes of its own volition...
He chased his muse down the dusty, unswept corridors of the tunnel beneath the temple. He sought to possess her as he raced across the market square and over the clean paved tiles by the altar stone, where he thought he found her in the eyes of a woman. This must be her he thought and he spoke to her and a stream of words flowed from his lips so eloquent, words so golden. He could see the words floating above his head like the speech balloons of a comic book character and he was enchanted and he spoke and watched the words form and come into being until, soon, the room was filled with his word balloons and a voice called out, "Someone, open a window." The room was thick and close with his words, but he peered above below and around them, looking for the face of his muse. He sensed that she was there. He glimpsed the sleeve of the flowered shirt she had been wearing when he first spoke to her. But with the window open, some of his words began to float away , out into the twilight sky of the city, serenely gliding, the word balloons.
People in the street looked up. "Say, what is that?"
The poet ran to the window to close it. "Oh,no! They're getting away! I need them back. They're mine." But people in the room paid no attention. They looked at him and looked away and drifted out of the room and into the hallway. The only other person left in the room was the woman by the window watching the balloons sail over the city. She smiled when a child in the streets far below jumped a little jump and caught one.
The poet came to the window and said to her, "Come with me," and she looked him in the face with an amused smile and said, "No."
Then he was angry, but he tried to hide it. "Oh, I get it, he said, This is some kind of woman thing. You want to get even with a man because of all the bad things some other man has done to you." She didn't answer, but just smiled her inscrutable smile and left the room and the poet in the gathering dark.
He was alone now in the empty room. He sat by the window as the night lights of the city winked on and the glow of the purple fingers of sunset faded from the sky and the last of the word balloons disappeared into the vanishing point. He made his way to the door in the dark, tripping over folding chairs on the way. He turned on the electric light . In the harsh glare, he looked around and saw the floor was littered with small deflated balloons, looking like so many spent condoms. He picked up one and blew it up. It was the one that had said Come with me.
He walked back to the window, sat on the sill and let it go. It flew out like a rocket out of control with a ripping, gassy sound, corkscrewing and farting and falling, falling fast until it fell at the feet of...the woman in the red high heels.
I sit in the pool of quiet, waiting for the muse. I catch a glimpse and I am after it, hurrying down flights of stairs, searching in the sub-sub basement, near the boilers and heating ducts in the laundry room of the grand old hotel, sliding over the slick tiled floor. I try to keep pace. Then I am in a crowded corridor and I see a waitress, a black woman with dark, liquid eyes. "Are you my muse?" I question her with mine, but she just glances at me and looks away. I hurry on in frantic need exiting through a revolving door onto Main Street, bustling with shoppers. Up ahead, I know I see her. That must be her in the red high heels , the tailored black slacks and the red wool vest, or... is it the child in the stroller? The old man standing by the bridge watching the water of the river flow by with his elbow on the railing and the dreamy vacancy in his gaze?
I can see,now, that I have been too obsessed. The muse, like a lover, can never be posessed. It comes of its own volition...
He chased his muse down the dusty, unswept corridors of the tunnel beneath the temple. He sought to possess her as he raced across the market square and over the clean paved tiles by the altar stone, where he thought he found her in the eyes of a woman. This must be her he thought and he spoke to her and a stream of words flowed from his lips so eloquent, words so golden. He could see the words floating above his head like the speech balloons of a comic book character and he was enchanted and he spoke and watched the words form and come into being until, soon, the room was filled with his word balloons and a voice called out, "Someone, open a window." The room was thick and close with his words, but he peered above below and around them, looking for the face of his muse. He sensed that she was there. He glimpsed the sleeve of the flowered shirt she had been wearing when he first spoke to her. But with the window open, some of his words began to float away , out into the twilight sky of the city, serenely gliding, the word balloons.
People in the street looked up. "Say, what is that?"
The poet ran to the window to close it. "Oh,no! They're getting away! I need them back. They're mine." But people in the room paid no attention. They looked at him and looked away and drifted out of the room and into the hallway. The only other person left in the room was the woman by the window watching the balloons sail over the city. She smiled when a child in the streets far below jumped a little jump and caught one.
The poet came to the window and said to her, "Come with me," and she looked him in the face with an amused smile and said, "No."
Then he was angry, but he tried to hide it. "Oh, I get it, he said, This is some kind of woman thing. You want to get even with a man because of all the bad things some other man has done to you." She didn't answer, but just smiled her inscrutable smile and left the room and the poet in the gathering dark.
He was alone now in the empty room. He sat by the window as the night lights of the city winked on and the glow of the purple fingers of sunset faded from the sky and the last of the word balloons disappeared into the vanishing point. He made his way to the door in the dark, tripping over folding chairs on the way. He turned on the electric light . In the harsh glare, he looked around and saw the floor was littered with small deflated balloons, looking like so many spent condoms. He picked up one and blew it up. It was the one that had said Come with me.
He walked back to the window, sat on the sill and let it go. It flew out like a rocket out of control with a ripping, gassy sound, corkscrewing and farting and falling, falling fast until it fell at the feet of...the woman in the red high heels.