Existence as Glycerin

Written June 10th, 2008

Edited and published September 13th, 2009

In the absence of motors humming,

Air conditioners grunting,

Coffee makers percolating,

And other general cacophony,

I can hear each rainbow sphere

go POP!


and disappear on the kitchen table,

the tiled floor,

the unshaved part of my thigh.

I hold the little plastic party favor

in the palm of my hand

"Made in China" it says…

Bubbles and everything else.

I unscrew the cap and

lift a wand to my lips

Shimmering, invisible shield

swells against my breath

And so bubbles are born.

Floating like dandelion seeds

Leprechaun rainbows

smiling on soap globes

as they glide past the

flickering of my candle

As the wick recedes,

the bubbles detonate around it.

The flame, small and fragile,

wails and squirms,

huddling closer to the wax,

which threatens to drown it.

As my candle suffers,

I continue to blow,

amused by the dance of fire:

a bolero of sticky soap and melting wax.

Perched on my rolling chair,

I lean back as if on a cloud,

robed in my oversized pajamas,

continuing to blow into my magic wand.

And so the steady stream of suffering

passes past my lips

leaving residue on half-drunk pop cans,

salt shakers, cell phone, dog-eared books,

the used napkin from tonight's fettucini dinner,

and the soon-tobe

black crisp of thread

extinguished flame

cold, hard wax

sticky surfaces

no bubbles


it's dark.

And I realize

the light I lit,

the bubbles I blew,

the glory I had,

as midnight creator

is gone.

Be warned God, I think.