Minisode 17 – Hamilton/Owens and Yoon: We’re All Slackers Here

The King Hangs His Crown
It begins. The end. The end of the world. Of what we know. No more wagons crossing glistening pavement. Pavement patterns of rain. His reign should have been long lasting. Along the stone pillars brown moss grows like weeds. A tumbleweed cartwheels through, thrown by a sky giant from the clouds above the city. It started quickly and he prepared for the pearly end. In the days before he hung his crown on the hook like a hat. It swings back and forth and forth until the end when it swung back only. To go back to change. To change out of denim and tuck into bed. A speck in the world. A world that is not beginning. Wagons moss weeds giants crown forth and forth and forth. It begins.

Upon a Trail
Upon a trail ‘round Rotterode, just passed the river Floh, she sits on a hill, the grass rolling green and blue like the pond on the other side. In her hand she holds a true morel. Turning the fungus over and over in her hand she ponders  how big it might grow to be. How big she will grow to be. The mushroom grows bigger than her, she dreams. She nosedives in and out of its honeycombed caps. Enveloped in fir forest, she kicks around granules. Inside the foot like her brother taught her. Usa el interior de tu pie, she says her brother’s words out loud. Warm and wet morel walls tower high. A well-guarded palace. An armed fortress. A home.

From the Viewing Room
to open and lie there. to lie there open and have no control. if it is my brain pried open my secrets will spill out and she will have to collect them with her gloved hands. the blue ones shatter the moment they touch the laminate. the white ones reflect a pink hue from my coagulated blood. the green ones are my favorite because they are mine and no one else’s. it is important to have ones that are yours. ones that are untouched and unseen. one by one and armfulls of secrets they will spill out as she frantically shoves them back inside me so i can hold on to them.

At any moment,
We might end. 
Swallowed by mud,
Or crushed by the sky.
Is this why you went
Chasing death?

I am a mountain,
Or am I simply 
a mound of sand?
Laboring by midnight,
I let them all go. 
One, two, three
Four at a time. 
They glisten.

If you could see 
what I see,
You would drown on land. 
But you would also 
see the moon.
And you would know
My green glow
And the tire tracks
On the beach.

There is so much
You don’t see
When you don’t look 
Past the bridge of your nose.
We have never been the same.
You are wrong to think
That your struggles – 
That our struggles
Create an implicit promise.