mechanical travel agent.

There was a slimy feeling

to where we were standing.

As if we had stepped into

a separate world

apart from our own,

but still real and tangible.

          

Just beneath the surface.

By breaking through that surface

we had trespassed on grounds unfamiliar.

We were happy with the unfamiliarity.

It meant that none of us

had fallen so far as to be

able to recognize

the scent of insanity.

Knowing it well enough

to guess the outcome.

     

The slippery slope was slipping once more.

The feeling of unfamiliarity subsided,

eventually, either by numb association

or plain alleviating grace.

We were taken deeper

into this parallel dimension

without knowing when to leave.

Going through room after room

each a glimpse at destinies

and fate’s offspring

holding the keys.

Future lives being dissected on tables made of previous convictions

by surgeons and tailors divine.

I no longer remembered

why we were here

and feared

that the longer the stay

the less there was to keep.

dead letters for living people

anchor

Staring at the wall.

Seeing faces.

They’re all here with me,

their names unknown.

     

It’s the little things

that one misses.

The doctor said

I’ll want to sleep off the side effects

for the first few days-

until my body adjusts; a short period of sedation.

I’ll sleep and stumble

for the next four to five days

of mind rebuilding oblivion

I keep one hand on the wall, an anchor, afraid I’ll float away.

I recall these same remedies

being sold for tens and twenties.

It was a free for all at every locker break.

A sixth grader had the round white ones with the split in the middle.

The seventh grader who had the pink football looking ones,

and the eighth grader with the powder blue triangles.

We were pre-teen monsters unaware 

of the hooks we were piercing ourselves with.

I crave the feeling of those hooks 

digging into a meddled consciousness.

There is a mystical calmness

to being brought to a place like this,

to sleep for a thousand years

in an eternal hibernation

poisoned-princess style.

The doctor tells fables

of functionality after the fact.

Pleasing tales of possible long term results

that are carried over after the tale is done.  

I want to go to the store and buy a toothbrush

walk the aisles aimlessly,

get a burger and a beer…

but the anchor is short… the length of my arm.

josephmcabral.com

dead letters for living people

bad sign.

Laying here

staring at the ceiling

watching ticking insects

fall by the side of the bed,

sick for a nostalgia

of a few years ago,

     

sentimental viruses

infecting synapses and ambitions.

The light from outside smells like an old song

that used to be danced to

in a parents living room

when the idea of parents

being away

meant freedom.

The bed feels like a bad sign

that’s yet to be lived, some crazy feeling,

which is somewhere in the future.

     

Someday I’ll feel

as I do at this moment and will

have to remember

to write it down when it happens.

The head feels heavy

with whomever I spent the night with,

years from now, I will recognize

that she was only a creature

that had been neglected.

Lost to a collection of memories,

none of it could be properly

pasted together.

          

In each tiny sliver,

I will see her face looking at me.

Focusing on current predicaments,

pedestrians flocking

from a bus stop at the corner,

each one carrying mementos

of themselves to remind them

of things no one wants to speak of.

josephmcabral.com

blanket.

“Last call my good man.” 

The words come from an unidentifiable creature. A towel in his hands. A voice worn and soft from age and too much second hand smoke. He was Santa Claus without the beard and a belly full of jelly. 

“So much for ‘everyone knows your name’.” I was surprised at the drawl and slur of my words as they gurgled out of my mouth.

     

A warm distilled blanket closed over me somewhere during the now unknown number of drinks and trips to the restroom. I had succumb. I came here with a purpose. The voices kept choiring in my head, the thoughts kept stomping around my brain, and responsibilities kept reminding me of living. 

I needed more to drink.

     

Santa waved me away as gravity spun me like a top on the spinning barstool. Weakly and foolishly I grabbed the bar and raised my three ton body; my feet seemed to dangle five miles above the ground before making contact. There were more faces in the room. All snug in a distilled stooper with visions of sugar plum fairies dancing in front of their eyes.

     

I wasn’t sure where all this Christmas imagery was coming from, it was mid July and this would be the last place I’d see a

reindeer. Yet, I swore I could hear sleigh bells somewhere.

     

Yes, I think I had drunk myself stupid. So now the question would be; how stupid was I? All I have is memories and nothing else. Memories and anger, no more; memories, anger, and loneliness, that’s all; memories, anger, and loneliness, and revenge, that’s it; memories, anger, loneliness, revenge, and regret, maybe; memories, anger, loneliness, revenge, regret, and sympathy, nothing more. 

I wasn’t stupid enough.

     

“Right nooooww it all seeeeems to beeee arguing inside meeee!” I managed to sing it in tune as I fumbled to the door. My warm womb-like blanket had turned cold and my stomach felt as if a birthing canal had ruptured opened. Knocking over a chair, maybe two; stumbling over a table or maybe someone at the table, I threw myself at the door, feeling the atmosphere surround me and the cold pavement come to me. Soon followed by everything else in acidic pools of yellow and green, black and red with Lord knows what else had been trapped within me. My mouth was an exorcism of carnal overindulgence.

I followed the walls of the buildings; I needed the support as I left digestive what-nots along the way. It made a perfect trail to wherever this body landed. I wasn’t even sure I was going the right way. After what was probably the one hundredth fall, I gave up. The point of getting up had escaped me and the ground was so much more comforting. Solid, cold, stable, it was simple joy as more convulsions followed and the soul was now purging itself through my nose.

josephmcabral

dead letters for living people