Mobirise


The Sacred in the Quotidian

Fall, 2005


Gene Berson


Where There Are No Shadows

He works in a glass and steel building.
Snaps open the rifle bolt lock of the door that says ENTER.
Sticks in the plastic card with his picture on it;
sticks it into the slot and waits for the red light
     that says TRY AGAIN or the green light that says nothing. 
Then he waits. Pushes his thighs into the turnstile bar--
it won't turn. He's a sheep
being shoved and halted down the chute, click
his picture snapped by the overhead camera lock
clank, that clank is permission
that comes with the ratchet wheel ticked by the pawl as the
     stretched spring boings
behind, another
glass door rifle bolt lock snaps open, Thank You.
There's a chair! in the barren redcarpeted lobby
(maybe there's a second or two to sit in it).
He touches the silent plastic elevator button that lights up coral
a circle, a black arrow, a black arrow in silver.
Bebop plays subliminally.
Ding. The elevator.
He feels a chill.
Air conditioning that goes through the bones.

Quietly the elevator doors open it is empty and warm,
warm air stale from smoking and breathing.
He gets to ride up alone
stares at the formica rosewood paneling
makes a scratch in it with his key.

     I stood up inside the fire-hollowed-out-still-living redwood tree
     marveled at the velvet charred wood and was restored
     by the quiet tree enclosing me, breathing

Ding. On the third floor a gang
laughing and entering men and women coming off their break
carrying styrofoam coffeecups. They pretend
he's not there. He has too much of the outside on,
his coat, his uncertain, presurgical anticipation.
He shrinks and smiles. He steps back and more
crowd in. The modern boxcar,
just enough to stir the racial memory. It says:

     you have more to lose; always
     you got more to lose--hang
     on . . . this ain't shit, man,
     no big thing
     you've got to develop a sense of humor in life.
     Shee't.

At what moment does the urge to live
flicker to cancer in this body, this tree? Where There Are No Shadows

He works in a glass and steel building.
Snaps open the rifle bolt lock of the door that says ENTER.
Sticks in the plastic card with his picture on it;
sticks it into the slot and waits for the red light
     that says TRY AGAIN or the green light that says nothing. 
Then he waits. Pushes his thighs into the turnstile bar--
it won't turn. He's a sheep
being shoved and halted down the chute, click
his picture snapped by the overhead camera lock
clank, that clank is permission
that comes with the ratchet wheel ticked by the pawl as the
     stretched spring boings
behind, another
glass door rifle bolt lock snaps open, Thank You.
There's a chair! in the barren redcarpeted lobby
(maybe there's a second or two to sit in it).
He touches the silent plastic elevator button that lights up coral
a circle, a black arrow, a black arrow in silver.
Bebop plays subliminally.
Ding. The elevator.
He feels a chill.
Air conditioning that goes through the bones.

Quietly the elevator doors open it is empty and warm,
warm air stale from smoking and breathing.
He gets to ride up alone
stares at the formica rosewood paneling
makes a scratch in it with his key.

     I stood up inside the fire-hollowed-out-still-living redwood tree
     marveled at the velvet charred wood and was restored
     by the quiet tree enclosing me, breathing

Ding. On the third floor a gang
laughing and entering men and women coming off their break
carrying styrofoam coffeecups. They pretend
he's not there. He has too much of the outside on,
his coat, his uncertain, presurgical anticipation.
He shrinks and smiles. He steps back and more
crowd in. The modern boxcar,
just enough to stir the racial memory. It says:

     you have more to lose; always
     you got more to lose--hang
     on . . . this ain't shit, man,
     no big thing
     you've got to develop a sense of humor in life.
     Shee't.

At what moment does the urge to live
flicker to cancer in this body, this tree?