Another day in the wooden-house hatcheck department. Powerhousecreatives contest

I've had some stupid jobs in my life but none more stupid than working in the wooden-house hatcheck department where you go to sleep all day long while serving customers and wait for that time to come to go home again...

The bird sings and cares not to be quiet about it.

The wolf howls at the moon.

And I was the starry silence that couldn’t get enough in between them both…

I was whispering to the trees…

I woke up again this morning to go through another day, almost as if there was nothing better to do; and with me being a lapsed catholic and all I just had to give a little moan before I got on with it.

But I was as small as what I was waking up to like a newt in the rain and could name any doom that anyone could think of to chase through my dreams before breakfast.

I was the stranger song in the wooden-house hatcheck department and I had to be there early every morning.

It was what I was living for, but all I could think of was that: I wanted to be what I was living for.

Every morning before my very eyes I saw it all approaching to be counted like some silly function on the radio that you just can’t get your head around, and so I pressed and formulated onwards like a good one on the stardust as if my life depended on it.

Like I said: the bird sings and cares not to be quiet about it; and the wolf howls at the moon…

Anyway, there I was, dead on time in the wooden-house hatcheck department and doing me nails…and far away and looking in like, kind of like an eagle with a clawed grin and breaking into the limelight with an: ah hah! And a: what an earth?

I was swelling; and crazy and broken in the dust…

Over in the darkness corner, Sam the wedge was growling: are we seriously not on the page here? But he does that every day and no one pays him any mind anymore and just step right on by.

All the slaves were gone in sleep, overcome by the wine and the nightshade deep in their sinking. But I was master of my fate and so began the next tide in the turning, and came up with the miserable marbles theme, until a reverberation later, on a high note I came up and up and up; and saw a street full of dancing girls had a monkey winder in a filet machine; and some in their grins sinned about this as they foamed from the mouth, and some banged on the painted piano…

I was darkest shine all bright and knew where my pillow lay

Yet I craved

Notes from the piano that came fast and slow

And whispered to my soul, until

I was the foaming mouthed stranger…

I was nothing, not even a smile

I was the half eaten dream…

And would hear what wisdom might come of it all…

The wooden-house hatcheck department went: click, and rolled out another smile that said: always look over your shoulder while brushing your teeth before cooking your next meal…

In my dreaming I could feel another rabbit hole coming on and so I uttered the legend: we shall now proceed until we wake up, and then we shall sing to our next precious lover all that we can, baring accidentals, of course.

A far Eastern palm tree on the Western fringes grew unconfirmed dates for all to pick over this to consume or not, and then burnt up in the sun of all it was to become a pilloried ghost in all the echoes that beat about the bushes for ages and ages.

I was making faces in the bulrushes with the frogs

I was the giver and the receiver of all my news

I was the lonely fool who couldn’t find his way home for nothing.

The record is broken: it plays over and over the same sad old news. The rebel is growing old. Crazy covers the land with its noise. And, time waits not.

I carried on whispering to the trees that I couldn’t get enough. And the trees whispered back: carry on breaking rocks.
As a leaf I blew through many places thundering close to the ground in my prayers and grasping, oh, grasping.

And gasping; well, I was growing old and my time was limited so I was reaching out for anything and falling back into the backwards time, and making a mess of that too.

Forging ahead I raced my silver prayers into their grave and then said the eulogy over them until they were gone forever. So I thought…

And then I began to fold into myself over and over.

I was shoop

And rising

I had the power…

And my name was thank you in any language you can name.

So anyway, there I was breathing fire and shooting flames out of my window onto anything that came close and rubber stamping my way through the maze at the same time. Huff, huff.

“We have one advantage: we can leave the crazy behind,” said the raspberry walker beside me who was pumping for all she was worth.

Deciding that I would hold out for another explanation I burbled over much and chipped up for her kiss a bit hit and miss like; but worth a try no matter what.

But she blew me off and misused me like a hole in my love until I was grasping for straws in her hey ho; kind of, déjà vu-ish; but real for the straws that were grasping.

How do you ask when all you have is the whispering wind that is all your life, for something that is not the crazy?

And not even ten o clock yet and coffee time...

Some far eastern shore blew through me then and pulled me away until there was nothing left to pull, which was quite fortunate for the next customer was before me in the wooden-house hatcheck department and trying to get through to me with their order…

As I pumped up in the wind of this, windless and savage, like creosote in the sand bags, I became ever more immune, and so blew bubbles faster and faster until everything was bubbles.

And thinking this I also thought that today was a strange day, but no stranger than all the others.

Yes, today I will keep love in my heart; and no matter how far out I drift that is what I shall do…

“How may I serve you,” I asked the customer, and began to give them all my attention…

Images from Pixabay Image by freeillustrated from Pixabay