Reflections

Subterranean light filtering the darkness. Screeching seagulls flooding my brain. Filling it with granules of sand. Shadows,swooping,gliding,diving to the depths. Empty shells washed ashore and picked cleaned. Witty saying,glib talk. Ebb and drift. Mixing,turning,blending,retreating. Caught up in the flow. I listen to the symphonies of Life. The shifting tides of conversation. 'Mister..Mister...buy me a drink.' 'I'll give you a good time. You can trust me. I bet you never seen anyone built like me.' Youth. Babes in Toyland. The tide advances. 'Look at that,my friend. Will you look at that. What a number. What a set of buns on him. Do you know him?' 'You got fifty bucks he's yours. That's the going rate,friend.' The over-the-hill gang circles the bar like sharks homing in for the kill. Devouring their buckets of chum. A tired old man secured to his bar seat weathers the storms. Holding fast to his drink. 'You still young. You don't understand.' 'Understand what,old man?' 'You kids have everything. I have nothing. You don't understand.' 'Understand what?' 'Life. Young man. Life.' The waves hammer the shore. The music grows lounder and louder. Everyone keeps time to the rhythm. The rhythm of lost souls. Noise. It drowns out the senses. Only numbness is left. 'Have a drink,my friend. We never talk anymore.' 'Bernie,we are not friends. I loved you once. I still do in my own way. But you cry too much. Too much salt drowns a friendship.' Straight people sit and watch. Porpoises at play. Their high pitched laughter piercing the air. They are doing their show, their balancing act. 'Look,guys. Is that a woman or a guy? I can't tell.' 'Beats me. Let's find out.' Wreakage drifts in. Faces,maskes,never revealing,always hiding under the surface. The boy who set out to be a priest. 'Kevin,over here.' I yell. 'Somebody let you out of your cell,Kevin?' He sniggers. 'I'm still locked in or haven't you noticed?' 'To many whippings,Kevin. You enjoy them too much. They have become part of your act.' 'We all have to atone, Tom.' He smiles and starts to leave. 'Remember the Holy Mother church, Tom.' 'How can I,Kevin? Is she reflected at the bottom of your beer bottle?' 'Screw you, Tom. You think you have all the answers. You may become a writer yet.' 'And you,Kevin,may yet find salvation.' Low tide. The music continues. The songs go on. The intellectuals sit. Barely keeping their heads above it all. An aging drag queen eyes herself in the mirror trying to hold on to something. Beauty and The Beast. Which is it? The observer writing his book. He thinks he has the wisdom of the ages in front of him. Open your eyes, Tom, and you'll see yourself in a hundred different faces. Lovers drowning searching for their lifejackets. 'I love you,Hon. Do you love,me?' 'You know I do. Why do you have to ask?' 'Where were you last night,Hon?' 'I had dinner with a friend.' 'Liar! I saw you with that trick.' Mad flats. The tide is out. Written October 16th, 2001 © on Oct 16 2001 12:31 AM PST   0 • 10