by Gregory T. Janetka
There are no intermediaries in the chasms stretching forward from the beginning to the end.
The rarity of timeless mediocrity delves to youth and being and the deathless.
For days and days the woman responded to little more than her own decay.
There was no sound within the mean days or partially covered oversouls as Emerson danced with the trees and complications of an iron string, endlessly repeated over days and nights beat forth into the wind.
Why don’t you have her by your side?
Why don’t you have meaning or solitude beyond what you can remember or destroy?
You are the beauty of the last falling leaf that made it through the winter but had to fall before the spring could be sprung.
Be. End. Endless.
What’s the color of your eyes in middle of the night?
The day built upon itself and lit a fire under desire seven letters before empire.
It is an undone relativity beyond usurped meals and blonde girls with no intention whatsoever and certainly not ones up to any good.
Done to a meandering solitude to mean.
You don’t mean it, do you?
Mean it to me and we’ll get on just fine; just fine. Just find.
And then we’ll be together again and hold hands and walk into fire with hearts open and meanings undefined.
Oh me oh my, with a finger in the pie and an endless living death.
Ha ha, that is beyond the time of dragons.
Wait. Really? No.
That’s another time.
With it in one hand and pointing to you we’ll have meanings and definitions to do it beyond anything you could possibly imagine.
There’s nothing you can’t joke about, can you?
So there’s that and there’s you and there’s every moment you have ever succumbed to. All those nights and fireflies pointing to horizons to the summerless pointlessness colorings anyone could possibly be beyond any of these with enlightened lassies and embolisms.
No, that’s not right, is it?
No, no, it can’t be.
Play that piano.
Play it until the breeze stops blowing and the bread stops growing. Meet me at the world’s fair and before you know it a day will come where you will be shocked to find yourself as me and me with three of the past centuries’ ghosts in my hand and my hand in yours.
No, no joke kiddo.
The stars are mostly in hiding but with them a child can find anything in solitude with nothing.
Gregory T. Janetka is a writer from Chicago who currently lives in Huntsville, Alabama. He spends most of his time there hiding in his apartment, drinking tea with his cat. He blogs at gregorytjanetka.com. is a writer from Chicago who currently lives in Huntsville, Alabama. He spends most of his time there hiding in his apartment, drinking tea with his cat. He blogs at gregorytjanetka.com.