Writing

In her dream she is arranging a party. She remembers that she has invited a great many people. She is filled with the dread that springs from the surety that no one will be arriving at all. This dread is counter-punctuated by a terrifying panic that compels her to do everything in her power to ensure a successful party.

She only has ten minutes and she wonders, "Why is my husband sprawled out like that on the putting green? Why is the back yard flooded?"

There is loud banging coming from the kitchen.

There is smoke.

When she enters, the two girls from the pleasure cruise are here. She remembers that she likes them and has hired them to help her. The prettier one has a grease-paint mustache and both are dressed as chefs; their white outfits are stained from smoke, their faces covered in soot.

A beautiful middle-aged woman walks by me towards her car...she is wearing tight white pants and a tighter white sweater...she smiles at me from behind smoky, square sunglasses.

Punk rock girl sits at a table on the other side of the window...she notices me looking at her and she smiles...her boyfriend is pulling napkins from out of the dispenser. He notices me and quickens the pace of his movements. He sits between us, ensuring that he is blocking our line of sight. Each of us pretends none of this is happening.

Breathing...Breathing...

I think of the girl that I helped with her tasks. We sat close to one another on the sofa. I could feel her bare arm against mine. The way that she moves and talks and the sugar cookies she brings me when we go on that one, long walk through rain forests, swamp bogs, and rose gardens complete the impression. The way she looks at me makes me feel special, important...unique. And when we part she is sad.

Breathing...Breathing...

There is a sensation that is located in the very middle of my chest...

The sky glares;
angry, ready.

tap tap tap
go the big balls of water
as they dot the ground and

The sky changes colors.

Now, she is recollecting the time,
as a child,
when the ball knocked her mouth from out her face
and a single tooth laying upon the black top
poured smiles up into her eyes.

Now, the front right tire offers up its last millimeter of rubber and explodes,
spitting white threads and chunks of tattered midnight.
The rest squeal and collapse in upon themselves
gracefully tracing strands of onyxSpaghetti across moistening asphalt.

The electrical pole, in its grim and solitary, know-it-here-and-now reality,
possesses planes, layers, frames, opacities, and thicknesses.

And they (she and it) have been interdependent since before her mother's mother carried
a bouquet of daises across an open field and the lumber mill began the dispensing of
tiny, white envelopes of money to the men.

The witness is close-by cleaning his responsibility
and day-dreaming of new shoes and polished book cases.

The tearing of the air,
the microscopic churning of enslaved chemicals,
the ripping, whistling metal,
the black and brown wood, splintering

--he hears these now.

The seat belt flaps loosely by her side;
following for a short, quick inch as she pitches forward
and, with her head, bursts the windshield into
shimmering, lapus-lazuli jubilee.

In three and seventeen-twentyfourths seconds,
when he runs up, leaving wet footprints behind,
he will be exactly 1 minute and 12 seconds away from noticing
the she will never eat the orange that
is / are / will be
strewn
here and there.

For now, all he knows is that she is trying to scream
but only managing softly croaked bubbles of
bile, phlegm, spittle, and blood.

Imagine this: You are being shaken violently by 7.5 million pounds of thrust pushing out of five F1 rocket engines somewhere behind you, and thirty six and a half seconds after lifting off from the Kennedy Space Center atop a Saturn V, every warning indicator on your control panel simultaneously lights up, fuel-cell disconnect flags pop, and your instrumentation malfunctions.

Seventeen and a half seconds later, the “8-ball” attitude indicator begins spinning wildly, the telemetry stream from Mission Control is garbled, and, since there aren't any windows, it's impossible for you to see what's happening.

It's November 14, 1969 and you are one of three astronauts on America's Apollo 12 mission –the second mission in the history of humankind to venture towards the Moon.

Your entire life has been prelude to this moment.

The world is watching.

You are the spacecraft systems engineer.

And you have no idea what's happening.