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To Nicholas Morgan's next piecea zillion faces in the mirror
there were 14 images of faces planted on olive walls, reeking of geriatric stench, including the formally lost chicken soup floating around the morning toilet. sleep was no longer an issue considering it was a distant dream to remember my eyes unblurred. I may have got a few hours in. only the cat knows, who has become obsessed with the creature that lives in the air conditioner. Each of those 14 faces had a different expression connecting to a response with a mouth that echoed next to my tossing, my turning, my gaping illusion that I existed still. the faces began pediatric moans when my eyes fluttered shut from exhausted frustration with all the lights from work clinging to my throbbing headache. It was time to up the doses. It was time to eat a few more of the horse pills and see what would become of me.
there were 13 images of faces planted on violet walls. I struggled to remember who I was, what I was, if I was, where the years had disappeared to, what was next. then I went blank, numb, forgot what I could so that stomach would move up and down, like some continuing nightmare Ferris wheel that never stops, of course you see other people getting on and off as they please, but not you, you are stuck going round and round like a dunce in a corner spinning on his final soul heel.
there were 12 images of faces plastered on cream-colored walls, the expressions continuously changing from distorted frowns of pleasure, to exclamation pupils in side pain. why would they point, laugh, ridicule me, betray me? because they are human beings each planted on top their own agenda mended lives, constantly building, judging, going for the gold on top the invisible mountain of rules. without love. if only when I shut my eyes, I could feel the nothingness of a darkened deep sleep, like a dangling hook below sea level. insomnia.
there were 11 images of faces that planted themselves like seeds on ginger-flavored walls. coughing and yelling, spitting and pulling on anything they could with those expressions they always had to change. With each disappearance came the wheel, which spun, quicker and more frantic. With each shit the baby took, there was another diaper to be placed over the screaming bickering elders speeding around in their pre-conditioned engine-driven carts.
there were 10 faces with images of anguish painted on light blue walls. Each clustered with needle marks threw string and teeth aches for fast sew me ups that would have eaten my stomach lining if I hadn’t got up to give up all that I knew was irrelevant now, like the sleeping children, the passed out grandmothers, and grandfathers, clinging to clocks that go “DING DONG” in the middle of the night’s frozen rain dribbling air.
there were 9 images of faces dangling in boredom sifted green slime cracking walls. planting rain in the sky for weeks over a degrading town of flatlands and joyful people in expensive cars blabbering away on little brain cancer carrying cell phones about their pathetic phucking lives.
number 8 goes pop, number 7 goes bang, number 6 goes splat, number 5 screams with no one to hear.
there were four images within faces on top gray-chiseled walls. jackhammers pounding into bone fragments made of swimming yolks. barrel-chested Bohemians skidding through toppled intersections to make it on time to useless meetings to learn about how the world is suppose to function normally. the stench filled with anger about ridiculous principles taught by failed executives in matching ties and socks, with g-strung barb-wired underwear digging into their never-ending anal mouths. if I could only sleep, I think the expressions in these serpent-tailed voices would gravitate towards at least a minuscule fraction of peace between white walls.
sick in unexplainable ways.
there were three images among faces around burnt brown lung-colored howls. on the yellow walls. pediatrics swinging on swing sets over geriatric ups in dosages. each face a memory never forgotten. the itchy bedbugs digging their greedy claws into shallow scalps. 3 days without booze replaced by contortions of hopeful narcotic buildings crumbling down like Italian earthquakes. you flush it all away with only more coming up from the pit of rotten stomach. the rust is fools gold.
number 2 sings about number 99 who is talking about number 62 when number 73 leaves on bargain flight number 36 after painting the wall of terminology over a dripping watery red and then there is left only one staring at you, pointing at you, screaming, laughing and whispering to you and only you.
there was one image of a face left planted inside a mirror with speckles of every imaginable color from each expression that ate away a lexis in my head after a voice left me counting 10 fingers, ten toes, 6 may have gone splat, but I can't find them. I looked at the wall and heard 14 different cries with laughter. they were gone for now. I had hoped. it wasn’t recognizable, the last face, because it was planted with the zillionth.
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