▲ A Google streetview image, location unknown.
The fugitive phosphorescence of the poet morn cast its wan light into damp farmhouse kitchen windows, but our hidden skeletons forgot to observe the climbing sun. Unforgotten warmth returned as we violated eggs and sausages and cups of tea, our short grunting phrases giving way to a honeyed discourse strewn with flowers of dialect.
Curiosity famished by the extent of our earth, traveling fast by road and then by sky like a window-fallen fledgeling, I joined an operatic society of hysterics and extremists, lovers of fervour who speak in smooth informalities and provide unsolicited answers to questions unasked.
Feeling always somehow excluded, stifled by shop windows and televised expectations, an unseen orchestra meticulously picking out the time as monotonous days neither slept nor woke but lay waiting. For what? For that first ride in a convertible car, deepened and sweetened by obscene whispers and the sight of her hair billowing like gallant red sails, my eyes melting with passion as I sketched her portrait one taillight flash at a time. After that each new love a short song cycle played once, the score burnt after.
My brain brimming over, I found many things inside me left lying unused. The phone barked like hunting dogs, my ears a fox, and when lifted it spoke with an accent, a voice that emphasized loneliness and an unheard conversation with the Catholic cemetery.
Lifting my eyes one day, the mirror showed me a man with no home for which to long, to which to return.
This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s archive, originally published January 3rd, 2013, in New York.