ManicWorld Magazine

‘I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion’
—Jack Kerouac

Four AM and the sulfurous sky is tinted an emetic green,

the moon’s sliver hanging like a scimitar
to slice apart the dead appendage of night
and toss it in the sewer of regurgitated and forgotten time.

Not willing to let go, I sit at my kitchen table,
yellow incandescent light humming a faint lurid glow,
a solitary window flickering against the deadened skyline.
Focus straight ahead, I tell myself, don’t flinch,

and you might see it again—the shadow person—
hovering somewhere in the background. I am certain
there is something standing in the corner of the room,
looking straight at me. But the curtains just keep brushing
softly against the window pane fanning time.

I stare at my silhouette reflected in the filmy glass
and press my index fingers to my eye sockets, pushing hard
until the inner lights begin to flash like shimmering polar auroras
and perform a macabre spectral dance within my inner lids.

Yes, I am pleased with myself, chancing upon what no one else
would dare engage in. So, here I am, fancy myself finding a moment
of invigorating didactic gratification in this secretive onanistic ritual
of inducing intraretinal imagery.

I tap and press, feel the liquid collagenous tissue bulge
and swell underneath my probing fingertips, tilt my head back
and watch the pulsing of my veins throb open and shut
like a ghoulish mouth shaping unintelligible words, reddish orange,

bluish white, opening then closing in streaks of kaleidoscopic greens
and electric purples, find myself enjoying this little game of shadow-play,
then think, he may still be watching me. Maybe I should just stop,
let the remains of the day wash over me, capitulate, and go to bed.

Just one more indulgence, I decide. Rifling through the kitchen junk drawer
crammed with discarded flatware, misshapen whisks
and rusted Phillips screwdrivers, I pull out a tarnished silver spoon,
settle myself in my armchair and place the utensil on my wrist
until it balances precariously like a minuscule see-saw.

One minute of sleep, that’s all I need. Let it drop, please drop just once,
and wake me up with a clatter. And maybe scare him away, too.
But the spoon remains poised and steadfastly anchored.
Stop fighting it. I concede. The day is gone. It’s over.

I am sure someone may still be watching me from afar so I glare
at the window, salute the empty space with a self-conscious smirk,
draw the curtains that fan away the hours, switch off the light
and wait up in surrender to greet another day.

Inspired by ‘A Window in the Dark’ — Lea Ignatius (1923–1990)