“Desk Chair”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

A nap in my desk chair

Teetering backward on a bevel, unbalanced

Tempting fate and the random result of chance being challenged

I might have fallen, except

The groggy gyroscope kept me in check

On the edge of a dreamscape void

Lightly able to confess being annoyed

With the blandness of my own existence

I sputter and yawn

Breathing in the noxious air of an unseen self

One which I usually keep on the bookshelf

So as not to offend

This far side of the sphere, better left unexposed

Cratered by the imprints

Of rumors and casual hints

Dropped in my wake

This condition has persisted for long enough to learn

That the ashes of antiquity perpetually return

When eyes close

And the night is nigh

And though I might imagine myself

Restored to a measure of emotional health

The yield is never such

I always seem to run aground at the shoreline

Hull on the rocks, and casualties in mind

This is the way I have gone

Like reading chapters from Hollywood Babylon

Each segment a sorrowful song

Sung by voices that now constitute only silence and whispers

Lives large and fantastic

But burned out in a rush

Their saga makes me glad for anonymity

My name evoking no joy or remorse

Simply a guidepost along the course

Of a journey into the realm of nothingness

The mirror is blank

Strangely crisp and cold is this reflective plank

When I peer forward for clues

Squinting at myself, with an ironic smile

To find some trace of what will come, afterwhile

I can hear the footsteps

The rattle of a keyed lock and hasp

Which arthritic fingers soon will clasp

With a turn and twist

When the door opens, in a sudden release

I will be here, on the edge of my seat

Reclining, headfirst, into a mental sweep

A clearing of clutter from the timeline, complete

A screen saver on the monitor

Flying, compact cars from a yonder age

Bars bending from a zoo animal’s cage

Clowns riding on oversized, rubber balls

And the essence of an internet meme dispersed

A sweet taste of chewing gum

Stuck in my throat

A confection, powdery and pathetic

The last thing I could remember before succumbing to anesthetic

Nearly toppling my throne from its wheels

A blister of red on my cheeks

The experience, an exercise in mortal defeat

Whether from failed pride or the force of gravity

Snapping to a vertical stance

Testing the elasticity of my athletic pants

With a tug at the seams

A curse and a groan

At my workspace, still half-awake, and alone

Yet now on the other side

Of that carousel ride

Content to be unaware

Of how it was that I zipped through the wormhole

Into a crevice of my soul