Marshmallow by Erk

Last Sunday, I got up from my relaxing spot on the beach, which had been my spot for 3 or so hours. A stray seagull cocked its head at me, and with a light hop, grew somewhat closer. It inquired where I might be going, but I gave it no satisfaction. The sand tried to hold my feet in place but it was too soft, and soon melted back into the ground to continue working on its tan.
I found myself wandering through the nearby town with my feet bare. A man chuckled behind a fruit stand.
“Lost your shoes?”
“Lost your mind?”
“Damn near lost my soul.”
“We all lose that one point or another.”
“Have a cantaloupe?”
“I’ll have a nice day, instead.”
I looked down to see if my shoe was untied, because it felt like it. However, my feet were bare. When I looked back up I was staring out a window, twenty stories high. Back at the old hotel room, huh, George? Yes sir, very likely. Well I do thank you for the information. I straightened out my tie and addressed the audience.
“What rights are forks guaranteed in the constitution, eh?”
The fork laughed right out loud, its spoon friends patting its back in good fun. I smiled, radiating. “We’ve got a great show for you today, folks.”
I began to sweat around my collar. A great show indeed. I shot a look at the mini fridge, nervous.
“Say, what’d the couch cushion say to the drapes?”
The audience was silent.
“Hard to say, considering neither can speak.”
The cushion guffawed.
I chuckled anxiously along with the room, once again fixating my eyes on the windows. Twenty stories high, you know. I know very well, George. I count them on the ride up! You only told me a few minutes ago! A few minutes? Well that depends how fast you’re reading. Anyway folks, there I was staring at the window as it grew larger, and the rest of the room shifted, lights dimming behind me. A bump formed in the glass, and this bump began to yellow. The audience grew very tense and quiet. The glass began to lose its transparency, and transition into a shade of brown I was quite unfamiliar with, its texture becoming wooden. I felt very lost, and when I looked, one might say: really looked at the object in front of me, do you know what I realized? Well, spit it out then, George. You got it, it was a door! Now how outrageous is that? A door? Why, that’s...dare I say...PECULIAR!”
Looking back, there was no room behind me anymore, and no show to attend to. I thought I might as well make use of the door, seeing as it awkwardly sat there, beckoning me. I’m a smart, sensible man, but...I know when I’m being beckoned. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon... After all, what’s a door that can’t be opened? Touch me baby! Well, that’s not a door at all, George. Exactly, so there I go reaching for the handle.
It squeaked “Watch the nose!” and I watched its nose as I twisted it, swinging the door open. The place behind the door was quite purple, or was it blue? Which one was it? Hard to say, hard to tell the difference. I could tell a cucumber from a zucchini, but blue or purple is a different ball game entirely. No it’s not, George.
I stepped in, intending to close the door behind me, but the door would not close! Now, what’s a door that doesn’t close? Well, that’s not a door at all, George, that was a window, twenty stories high! Remember? You stood there in the elevator, amidst the sun-burned girls and sweaty bare-chested men, counting, first to yourself, then out loud.
This is the end...beautiful friend...And there you go, floating, floating, falling. You kick your feet like a cartoon character who just walked right off a cliff, but you don’t hover in the air like they do, not even for an instant.You know, when they run so fast that they don’t even move? Isn’t that funny? It’s like they defied logic and time and physics all together. Well I can’t defy time or physics...but what logical person steps out of a window? Their feet are like a tornado, spinning around and around, kicking up dust, but they never move. But you moved, George, and you landed right on the hot summer pavement. Breakfast is served. Mashed George, reheated mush for the hungry people. This is gonna make a great news story. Maybe Kimmel will crack some wise about it, or Oliver will have some witty remark to make, a thin moment of satisfaction in his work.
“That’s all we have time for today, folks, but join us next time, will you?”
I’m not so sure about that, George. You’re canceled, after all.
Now, let me describe death to you, since I know you’re curious. In fact, you’re so damn curious it used to keep you up at night. That first time you saw a cowboy get shot on the television, and you realized he wasn’t going to get up. “Mama, what happens after I die?” “Well, if you’re good you won’t go to Hell, that’s for certain, so go to bed now.” It’s that closet door in your family home that’s always locked. What could possibly be kept behind that door? What secrets? People have written books about it, you know. Started whole lifestyles around it. Those Sunday mornings, the dreary wars, growling and bleeding from the mouth. Threatened people with it! Now what kind of threat is that? Who threatens someone with a mystery box? Do you know why curiosity killed the cat?
“You could have the real estate, wife, and all the rest, or...mystery box.”

It’s dark, instantaneously.
There’s no fade in, it’s even quicker than a light switch.
Then, you’re blinded.
Like when someone turns on your light in the morning.
And for a minute, all you can see is that light.
Instead of that light clearing,
As you rub your weary eyes,
Revealing the world around you…
It’s just dark again. And,
Then that darkness, slowly,
Pixel by pixel, crawls towards a shade of indigo.
There’s violins, you know.
A light hum, low and loving.
You half-expect credits to start rolling.
Instead that indigo becomes lighter,
And as it does so, slowly all is gone.
Those blurry, dripping, water color memories.
You are gone. Your own self has vanished.
That bed head, those banged up legs and hands…
There is no recollection.
And so, if all that has dissolved,
Who could be experiencing all of this?
What’s left, amidst the violin hums and the indigo?

Poetry, Psychedelia, and Folk Music