Absurdity #23

There is an art
to the way
he stumbles
and falls
into place
every now and then
that’s neither here nor there
as I’m neither there nor here
all the time.
And all the time
in the world
could not stop
the rush of cold blood
on broken necks
and space
bent
just at the levy
as hearts flood up to temples,
smooth bubbles filling lungs,
under pressure —
this place
135°
bubbling and burning —
he cooks in the pot.
Alone and without purpose.
But he is a hungry little caterpillar
in need for a fix
so he stumbles,
clutching
his briefcase until
it cuts
into his palms,
and walks through the walls
of a grungy Ramen shop,
spectral,
on the edge
of a tiny bridge
crossing
an equally tiny river.
and orders the
Tonkotsu Special
Oomori, Bari Kata,
shifting back and forth
on the torn-up pleather stool
as he awaits
the steaming pile,
careful not to look anyone in the eyes.

His mind swirls
in black and white
memories
that rush forth
and eclipse
his vision
as his eyes well up,
face twisted in knots,
he sits motionlessly
breathless
despite the gravitational pull
on his heart strings,
he simply
cannot move —
after all,
nothing can be done.

After all,
what is introspection,
what is action,
what is living?

The bowl arrives —
the stench of garlic and pork
filling his nostrils,
his mind clearing
itself slowly
as he begins his descent
into the murky depths,
foregoing any savoring
of flavor
as sustaining the life
of vermin
should just be an exercise,
in futility,
of course.

And as he shoveled
the feed
into his mouth
the room
began to disappear,
not so much
literally
but more so like
his senses
had become numb
to the existence of space and time
and with each bite
he chanted,
the words scribbled across his eyeballs
like graffiti,
Shou Ga Nai.

Let it be known that while chicken soup may be good for the soul, pork bones are good for the soulless.

His head exploded
like confetti.

The wreckage
splattered
against the walls,
chunky matter
fraught with anxiety
nevermore,
slinks on down
the sides
of the aging
establishment,
crimson
and stinking
of gunpowder smoke,
in patterns
reminiscent of
crop circles—
coagulating
in little puddles
at the bottom.
He slurped
thin noodles
dripping with
pork bone broth
in one smooth
noisy motion,
the back of his head
a gaping wonderland
of parts
shining lovingly
in the dim lighting.

A burst of laughter erupts
from the left
corner pocket
of the 8 and 1/2 person counter.
The smell of spirits high
as the court jester
continues his routine
but Father Superior
is unimpressed,
remaining focused
on the skull fragments
that now swim
along with
earthy wood ear mushrooms
and delicate seaweed and pork slices,
SABISU!
His eyes sliding down his face
in the style of poached eggs,
joining the medley,
rolling about enthusiastically
until they are staring back up at him
but he is unknowable to himself,
so this too is a futile action.

It was at this time the man
who’d lost his mind,
quite literally,
tilted his head back
causing the rest of the inky material
to exit — stage left — ,
drank in the remnants
of soup
with gulps that echoed
along the hollowed
nature of his skull,
satisfying the void.
At this moment,
Father Superior
began to cry
large bubbling tears,
adding unnecessarily high
levels of salt
to the already
high in sodium dish.
He stood up,
both man and eyes turning
towards our hero,
clapping fervently,
for this man
had shown him
true freedom.

Hand in hand they left the shop,
paying first naturally,
and stood on the railings of
tiny bridge.
Turning
to each other,
Mindless and Blind,
they smiled knowingly
before jumping into
tiny river
becoming
stuck in the mud
instantly.

Well perhaps freedom was not on the menu tonight but it could not be said they didn’t at least get their feet wet.

Forgive me, as you were warned, I am neither there nor here.

Originally published at Lyric Doe.