A View with Room
by Ian Wolff
A View with Room
A book down for less towers when talk ordered. Longest to be a then, that wasn't something to be again. Less and less, I say. Less is less, you say. Again in dimmest night, through cloistered halls, toward a better future, toward a distant past, distant heat on a permutated, hermeneutical plane. Grace, you look so lovely tonight.
Ambulatory. Talk. Forget is that was and tree for ground that came between us. Talk talk. Talk about irresponsible, incomprehensible. Longer days in summer spells. More sun was the order of events. Is it too late? Tree. Less is less. Walk walk walk. Grace? Is that you? You look so lovely tonight. I feel as if this night could go on forever. Stars in the sky, your scent so sweet in my nose, your skin, alabaster, your hair, flaxen fuller than summer wheat in a summer breeze. Your blouse! Press yourself to me.
Wait. Talk talk talk. Over fountain town was less the bridge than the draw. I am in the day that was a lock on the door. A knock on the door? Yes, someone was at the door. I open it. Grace! So good to see you. You look so lovely tonight. May I tea you for a cup of invite? Your blouse! Press yourself to me.
A look up to more fence of simply gone that hangs a later of offering. You understand me like no one else, Grace. That's what I love about you. Because for in a going there past of first talk to be company foregoing set, a rigid formula. Irreducible. But you see in blackboard chalk the written green of a lesser life. Your green eyes see. Don't they Grace? Your green eyes? Don't be shy. Press yourself to me.
Grace comes from far away. I ask her where but she wouldn't tell me. I asked her where, she tells me, "From far away." Her voice. Sweet Jesus, what a voice. That girl's got some lungs on her. "Grace!" I say, "Press yourself to me."
Day was again. I couldn't remember it's coming. But I look at a face value. I get up. In the window night was cleaned. Glass. Four panes. One window. Alone. Without empty bed me on the floor. Door? No. Nothing like that. After all a place is clean as it is only left. But doctor and thief are together in the open air, holding hands like teenage lovers on a hot spring day, green dust in the air, bird droppings all about, sweet sweet flowers in their hair. Rectilinear luminance on a dirt floor. Four panes. Glass. I press my face to it.
Away from Here
There are dozens gone to the left or right. Up in the air. Last rights held at the relative light. The light is what comes from the doorway. The light can't stand this perpetual bickering. It says. Enough already. Give your face to me. I comply. Let the light dimly fall there, no need for sunscreen. This whole team is heading for a showdown, a real shootem up jamboree. I'm limited in my resources. My attitude is don't see don't tell. But there are countless lessons to be learned from the luminance that we call our own, at home, sill box overrun with flowers, gate kicked down or fallen from the wind or sun or rain or whatever it is that tends to down rickety gates, collapsed porch, broken windows. No one here. Though if you squint there are certainly shadows flitting about. Then too the mice, they nose about in the dust, turn up their pin point cobalt eyes as if they are asking a question, or contemplating your worth. Of course you have no answer for them but rather rock back and forth on the balls of your feet. Am I talking about you? Neither. Still the rickety gate, collapsed porch, broken window, old sad willow tree, yard that smells like dog shit, rocks of it here and there like hardtack, an old trampoline, a tire swing, gray sky, car on the road with bad valves that clack away in the distance. Away from here.
Truth became finality and finality became redundant: the ultimate lie. Let's not quibble. There are countless friggin infinite ways to get this done. I'll stick to the basics. Bad said a long word under round, tumultuous triangles that spangle the night sky with their enunciation. I heard them up there. They teetered behind vast ivory caverns. They tumbled over tumescent tongues. They were implied by lascivious winks and amorous stares. All that's not said goes to a little hole dug in the ground somewhere north of Lapland. This means interment like so many corpses, or something washed up on the shore after a flood. You see all sorts. Short long covered in hair no hair dogs cats horses humans monkeys rats birds with a variety of feathers though all soggy and lusterless from the muddy water. This might be somewhere in the southern united states, might be in Haiti. Heard they got it bad. Another land, a place far away. That is where catastrophe lurks and has its way with the land sea air. People like bowling pins. And they raise their faces skyward wondering why there should even be light in the heavens when it all comes to this, walls of mud, disgorged valleys, trees like toothpicks scattered about.
Away from here. South we said but of where. When does it end? Though that might lead to disappointment. Especially when we find neither answer nor end. Why anywhere then? A tethered toe leads us to the cause of our problems. Toe too tired to teeter on the edge rather fall than stand and over you go! Careful of that though might regret it when its too late to go back. Run your hand through your hair. Really think about this for a second, really feel this for a second. Don't avoid your own reflection because there it is in the foggy mirror. Followed by your background of course. There no escaping that. What's back there? A chair, an unmade bed with or without love stains, some shoes on the carpeted floor, a desk (perhaps), drawers wherein your clothes are folded or not. This is just another place. There's the sink. And even in here you can smell the garbage needs to be taken out. See your skin in the mirror. Away from here.
Time's up already. That's hard to believe but so be it. I'm not one to argue with the inexorable. Take it as it is I say. A hood it is, pulled back to reveal something swelling and licentious. I didn't say that. But I will say this: you needn't conspire when already there has been this vast, inimitable confluence of eager bafflement, it grows treelike as if a flower from the bull dung dotting the compound. Strange bedfellows the pickleback and the tortoise. I climb small hills. Over and under. Down and back. And I can say this: you needn't conspire when already there has been this vast, inimitable confluence of eager bafflement. We're misused, sloughed off like dander, plied with candy, lured by old letches, laughed at by bishops, lashed by lieutenants, lorded over by pontiffs, denounced by ladies, worshiped by simpering fools, fed by the bankrupt, tricked by the mailman. Time may be up but it's a beautiful day. Out the window the sun hangs in a cerulean sky. How can you deny the birds their song, the leaves their green, the lawn it's blades of grass? How can you deny even this scent that's come from the south, a wafting of something less coarse than our usual northern air. Mangos and papayas, perhaps, or maybe something fecund in the garbage can downstairs.
About the author:
Ians only prior publication was in Index, a now long defunct magazine out of Tucson, Arizona. He won a writing award in the sixth grade. Since then things have been mostly quiet. He lives in Brooklyn with countless other writers. "A View with Room" is excerpted from a longer story of the same name.