somniat 19: wingless dragonflies

somniat 19 — wingless dragonflies

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.

    This entry was posted in poem, somniat. Bookmark the permalink.

    4 Responses to somniat 19: wingless dragonflies

    1. Mama Zen says:

      “but I don’t call out to them
      because I know its not her.”

      This is truly chilling. Excellent write!

    2. This truly reads like a dream. Very visual. It makes me sad how everything is in a state of decay, even before we see the theatre forlorn, forgotten and broken, it is becoming so with each step we take into it, with each soda spilled. There is such a tension in this unfolding. Always this banging thing, this drive to the food court, this angel who shuffles. It reminds me of my own dreams which always seem to be about me STRIVING, yet unable.

    3. James Cox says:

      Okay! You are at your best when you stay with the crisp descriptions and avoid abstractions. This is a very good poem. Intiguing, a bit surreal, dramatic, engaging.

    4. matt says:

      Mama Zen, thank you!

      Annie, you really pick up on the mood here well — thank you!

      James, I’m glad you like it!

    Leave a Reply

    Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

    *

    You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>