somniat 21

The light is so bright
it blinds us;
it hits one spot first,
and then another over there,
and then one more,
and then yet another –
until the entire room
bounces and glistens
with sparkles and gleams;
so much light
down here so deep,
it’s as if world had turned
inside out.

Ah, and what we see,
everywhere up on that ceiling
that has lain so black for so long
is now nothing
but bright, shimmering, capricious stars
that float and burn in a multitude of colors,
chartreuse and teal,
gamboge and ecru,
azure and cyan,
amaranth and crimson,
magenta and cerise –
blinding out the blackness;
and these stars, they dance;
they caper across an infinite space
in a joyful frolic, a prance –
not just above us
but all around us,
an endless milky way of stars;
so that even the wingless dragonflies
stop ventilating
and their nervous trigger fingers
relax.

And I see it there,
a constellation that strums
the strings of my heart
and plays a tune
in the form of angel;
a secret message
that points me toward
the promenade,
so that now I know
where she’s gone.

I’m not really so far,
and there’s still a small crack in the shutters,
so with everyone looking up,
I slip back, a few steps,
and then a few steps more,
and then I’m through,
and then I’ve shut the final shutter,
and then I’m alone
in the promenade
that slopes up
toward where my angel
has gone.

by matt at shadow of iris

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Ebony, a poem, follows next. Somniat begins here in the poem, underground.

somniat 20

They’ve always called it the atrium
and I’ve never known why;
what light there is, is near the ground
lighting up the fountain,
but the area above
disappears into thick shadows
that always leave you wondering
what’s up there
in all that blackness,
and if it’s an atrium,
then where is the sky?

Once I was a student
and I used to come here
and the atrium
was the center of my world:

… on one side the promenade
outdated and ancient, half-occupied
with the oddest and queerest of shops
selling nothing practical, but everything amusing,
comic books and knick-knacks,
science fiction themed adult toys,
magic charms and colorful rocks,
old books and funny games;
there were even stores that sold
somebody else’s used underwear.

… on the other side was the old cinema,
where once they used to show only the most avant-garde
and trendiest of films,
then when business began to fail, soft porn,
which they argued was of artistic merit —
but when too many began to complain
they became a twenty-four hour cinema
showing forgotten classics
around the clock.

These days, the only way up
to the hotel,
and the only way down
to the food court,
is through the atrium;
of course, nobody comes here now,
except artist wannabes,
lost students …
and now wingless dragonflies
that circle me
and dance with me
as I move slowly,
cautiously toward the center,
where the waterless fountain
dry burps some dust
but helps me not,
I saw an angel,
you must have seen her,
she came this way,
I don’t really want to bother her;
I just want to see her again,
to make sure she was real.

I’ve confounded them,
one of them shakes his head
and barks at the others,
most of them move off
and go back to doing what they were doing,
shutting the place down –
sliding large metal shutters
across the entrance to the promenade
trapping off whatever shop keepers
or customers still might be there
at this hour.

The two soldiers that stay with me,
point their rifles and are ready,
in their eyes
there is a cold familiar hate,
though mere moments ago
we were strangers.

Then there is scuffling,
a momentum, and again
these wingless angry dragonflies
begin to swarm together
to see what the approaching problem is.

There is a swelling emerging from the theater
pushing its way out through the cinema lobby,
mohawks, spiked waves, waterfalls of hair,
a stormy rainbow against black,
hooligans and delinquents,
who want out.

But the armed men in rain coats
with their bulbous goggle eyes
and their ventilated noses
have shifted
into either a chorus line
or an attack position;
there’s even more down here
than I’d realized, a whole flank
with rifles ready and aimed
to face
the maladjusted and the discontent,
and behind them –
nervous business men,
students in plaid,
nearly every lost reject
they tried to stuff into that theater
or seal off down in that food court,
they’re almost all here now
and they all want out.

But I’ve seen these soldiers’ eyes,
the hate and the fear,
and I feel, a rising wave of catastrophe
about to sweep over us all;
you’ll regret it when it done,
is what I think or what I say,
but I see no way to stop
this unfolding tragedy,
until out of no where
there is a chime,
angel bells, I’m sure,
and we all look up
as there a sudden brightness in room,
someone has set the entire ceiling afire
in an explosion
of light.

by matt at shadow of iris

---

Festival, a poem, follows next. Somniat begins here in the poem, underground.

wingless dragonflies, somniat 19
somniat 19

An orange soda tips over at the counter
and spills out its contents
over scattered bits of popcorn
and abandoned licorice pastels,
then begins to drip
onto a plush black carpet –
no one mans the concession stand,
but I hear a soft movement,
a shuffling not far from the cash register;
I don’t know who’s there,
but I don’t call out to them
because I know its not her.

I leave the cinema lobby
through large double doors
that lead out, into to the atrium,
a massive underground chamber
centered around a fountain, that once
must have been spectacular,
but has since dried and cracked,
becoming a place for cigarette butts,
occasional trash and accumulated dust,
aluminum cans.

I am not alone,
there are men moving about
in funny full suited rain coats,
army green,
with goggles that give them
large circular bug eyes
and a nozzle that elongates their noses
and accentuates the sound of their breathing;
long exasperated, belabored breathes;
as they shout at me
and point their impressive rifles;
I haven’t time for this,
this game they are playing.

There are two ways down to the food court,
an elevator
and a long spiraling stairway –
tucked away in its own alcove;
the elevator has been shut down,
and the alcove sealed with a sliding metal shutter;
behind that shutter there is an intense banging,
and a voice that cries –
I look to see if I can open it
but I’m pushed away
by the butt of a rifle;
and I turn to see
eyes behind that bugged out mask,
inflamed and threatened,
ready to kill me.

A pack of soldiers, a swarm,
surrounds me,
I don’t know how many there are
but I’m their problem now
and they will unravel me;
they are dragonflies that buzz about me,
fearful and angry,
because their wings have been pulled off;
I stand still
and when, for a brief moment,
their bickering drone pauses,
I tell them,
I saw an angel.

by matt at shadow of iris

---

Goggle-eyes, a poem, follows next. Somniat begins here in the poem, underground.

somniat 18

Many, many years ago …

Dear Mr. Gallucio:

Following the instructions of my client, Leliel Aislinn, I am to inform you that as per the contract, if your clients do not build the solar hole into the ceiling of the atrium which is located above the food court, between the cinema and the promenade — my client will seek to restrain you from any further activity in carrying out this project.

It was clearly stated verbatim in the contract, that my client’s design for the hotel and accompanying underground project would be built without any changes. It is therefore hoped by my client you will indeed see the project through, and not attempt to take any more of these cheap short cuts — which clearly put you in breach of contract.

Sincerely,
Daniel Molimo

---

Dear Mr. Molino:

Please inform your client, Mr. Leliel Aislinn, that creation of the solar hole is simply not possible. While it was not realized when the contract was initially signed, it would literally require moving the path of the subway line above the atrium. The cost here would be prohibitive — more than the cost of the project itself.

My clients ask your client to please consider what we have already achieved here. This hotel will be unlike any other on earth, a hollow helix spiraling toward the sky — from the top, a pool, suspended between the hotel and neighboring mountain — so that people might swim with the angels. Does your client realize to what degree we have had to cut through bureaucratic red tape to even get approval for such a project? Does your client realize we have already procured world class engineers and rare materials from all around the world in order to make this project happen?

This solar hole in the atrium would seem but a minor matter. Please let us drop it. I urge you to further consult with your client.

Yours truly,
Alphonse Galluccio

---

Dear Mr. Gallucio:

As per my client’s request, we now have filed a restraining order against your clients to prevent them from continued work on the project — my client is quite insistent, there will be a solar hole in the atrium, or there will be nothing.

Sincerely,
Daniel Molimo

---

Dear Daniel,

We have been friends since law school. Please try to talk some sense into your client. This is really madness. Do you realize that the solar hole only lets in the sunlight for a few minutes once per year, when the sun rises at just the correct angle. So, we are expected to potentially triple the entire cost of the project for a special effect that appears but once per year and for only a few minutes? We will legally fight you on this, and rest assured, that your client Mr. Aislinn will never see any work again in this city or perhaps any other.

Yours truly,
Alphonse Galluccio

---

Dear Alphonse,

My client, Leliel Aislinn is insistent on the solar hole. He wishes me to inform your clients that although the effect will only take place once per year, the effect of the sun shining through the hole at the proper time into the atrium will create what he calls the festival of stars. He notes that the effect should be so spectacular that it could become a major event in the city — and attract a great deal of tourism.

Sincerely,
Daniel Molimo

---

Dear Daniel,

Well, it’s been six months since this impasse, but as luck would have it, the new city administration is concerned about unemployment. As such, it appears my clients have made some inroads with them — and will be given a large grant to move the subway line, thus enabling us to build the solar hole according to your client’s specifications. I am to inform you the project could resume as early as next week.

Yours truly,
Alphonse Galluccio

---

Several decades later …

Dear Daniel,

Perhaps you will recall the old brouhaha caused by your now deceased client, Leliel Aislinn, over the issue of the solar hole in the atrium.

On a hunch I checked with the city archives, and it turns out the sun has never once shined through that hole. It appears the day set in which the sun’s rays were to strike perfectly at the hole, traveling down several levels into the atrium in order to produce the festival of stars has never occurred. Nor is it likely to happen, the weather during that time of year is consistently rainy — not once since they’ve been recording it, has that day ever had a sunny sunrise.

Who gets the last laugh now? Ha, at least the city government must have been grateful an excuse to waste the people’s money. They moved the damn subway line!

Sincerely,
Alphonse

---

Somniat is by matt at shadow of iris

---

Dragonflies, a poem, follows next. Somniat begins here in the poem, underground.

somniat 17

The world blurs slightly
flickers for a moment
on the brink
and I can’t tell if it’s me
or just the lighting.

I reach behind
and touch the back of my head,
my hand comes back
red with blood;
I must have smacked myself there
when I fell
or has it been there
all along?

Too many noises now,
too many to sort out and sort through
as I move up the small stairway
and through the black velvet curtain
leaving behind the exit door
that leads to the food court
where they scream and pound
as they panic
in the hope of a way out.

I enter into an old, outdated cinema,
the underground theater;
I’ve been here before;
I’ve watched movies here before;
but now everything is askew;
emergency lights flash
even though a film plays on,
its sound too low and somehow discordant;
an old black and white thriller,
a femme fatale with a gun on her lover
and his wife watching with a wordless scream
as she shoots.

In front of the screen
where I’ve entered
sits an adolescent, cross-legged,
and distracted by his own thoughts;
and not far from him,
a group of business men stand
nervously milling about
while they talk with one another,
each one of them with a cigarette
that hangs precipitously from their mouth
as they glance sideways, this way and that.

A few people still sit in the theater seats
but as the credits begin to role
it looks as if no one has been watching the film;
one lady with her head in her hands droops;
an older man stares forward vacantly;
it’s as if all of their dogs had died
in one fell swoop.

My angel has flown, for she is not here,
and there is only place she could have gone,
up.

Before I go, I must do something,
I call to the adolescent,
and he vacantly comes over at me,
I tell him, as I point to the exit corridor
from which I emerged,
they’re screaming down there
in the food court,
let them out.

His face is blank
except for his lower lip
which trembles,
am I going to die?

For a minute I think I will fall
in the rush of heat
that suddenly flows to my head,
so intense, I think it will explode,
but I manage to tell him,
I saw an angel.

At first, his face is one of protest,
then he thinks it over;
finally, he nods,
I’ll go let them in.

I pat him on the back
then move up the aisle
toward the cinema lobby.

by matt at shadow of iris

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A solar hole, an exchange of letters follows next. Somniat begins here in the poem, underground.