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| Locked Inside Winter Avian songs sink heavy in snowy dunes, and sleep with gold, red, and bronze buried deep. They are here. All here. Hiding in the snow. Locked in Desyrel dreams. The frostbit air pricks my pores, running in shivers through my spirit. Weathered trees make jagged hickory smoke and ash that fill the air with lunacy. Here, I am the only color in a black and white photo collage of sharp edged shadows and light; I am fading. Angie Scheitel
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| Conversations with
Strangers I, II, and III I. Restaurant What can I getcha, sweetheart? In blood— Time traces lines on her legs. Seconds crease her skin; Shallow wrinkles match her hair. The colors of shadows and cream. Another coffee please, and maybe some more cream. In front of me, the window glares judge my food inedible. I stare at the reflection in the table and find nothing. The paper is blank; the pen empty. Not a problem. Ya know, my daughter had a pen like that. Wrinkles deepen into reflection. Was it the same or— was it more blue? Are you sure? No, it’s different. She was different. That’s nice. What does your daughter do? She passed a couple years ago. Cancer. Oh, I’m so sorry. You had no way of … But still… She sits down. Words fall. I listen. The pen refills. II. Bus Good Morning, Ma’am. Good Morning. No mouth speaks. Eyes follow movement, but do not connect. Legs tense at near-touches. Thoughts float above heads. Eyes, teeth, arms, legs speak. Next stop, Laurel Ave. A cell phone whoops. She talks for others. She proves she is not alone. She is loved. They hate her. Next stop, 12th. Ding. Eyes roll. Arms stiffen against chests. Breaths use more force than necessary. People sit; pretend to be alone. Next stop, 8th. The homeless man with too many clothes for winter steps on. The smell precedes him. All the heads scream. DON’T SIT BY ME! Next stop, Washington. Ding. Have a good day, Ma’am. Thanks, you too. I listen to the eyes roll. The pen refills. III. Home I set the pen down, drained of its tears. The stranger now silent, admits My fears… Angie Scheitel
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| Eavesdropping Next door a woman cries, moans. Down the hall a party swings In 6B She lies sedate. Legs curled in a semi-fetal pose, eyes only mirrors. Sunbeams slip between thick drapes; illuminate smoke and dust settling. Pitch-black palls grimy and smeared. A cigarette smolders slowly, forgotten. The TV stages The Price is Right for a singularly captive audience The state-of-the-art malevolent blue glow, injected simmering, consumes her. When is the price ever right? Locked in her shrouded heart children wail, wetting dust-covered cheeks, women scream, longing love’s final touch, fists pound, bodies writhe, and screech For only a moment, deep in cerulean eyes, a spark flickers The cigarette, too long forgotten flares up and dies out. Angie Scheitel |
| Home Revisited Evening strides along familiar streets reveal— Damp sheets sway hot on rusted lines to the rhythms of Johnny and Elvis. The scent of meat on the grill, suntan oil, and laughter blend with cherry Kool-aid in yellow plastic decanters. The night flows in in prickles to torment bare burnt limbs. From backyards worn mothers, gather clean sheets and dirty children. The sun paints the grass a fiery orange, and gives up the day to the street lamps. Nothing has changed. Houses seal-up. Whispers begin. Bruises take shape. Nothing has changed. The road ends. I walk away. Angie Scheitel
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| Carpet Paintings A beige carpet dotted here and there with red wine, grape juice, chocolate, and marker ink. Once despised, is now celebrated. The random becomes a pattern. The red wine becomes a bloody hand print. The chocolate, ink and grape juice become people, places and things. The carpet, blemishes and all, is thus transformed into the canvas upon which a mind can play and project its creations. Angie Scheitel |
| Night Thoughts drift in with the chirping of the crickets. I close my eyes. The monsters on the inside of my eyelids fly around making the faces of cats and puppies caught in microwaves, people caught in pressure chambers. All the evils in the world join together to perform a dance macabre where my attendance is mandatory. In the daytime, nightmares hide in the corners of my eyes and make nice with all my unnatural fears. In dreams, they come out to play naked hopscotch and badminton. Screams come from cloaked bodies with no faces tied to my bed, and the big bad wolf watches. I step through a door covered in posters of heavy metal rock bands into a bedroom. The music on the other side of the door is deafening. A man lies asleep on the bed. The music stops. His eyes open. I wake up. The sun is shining in my window. The nightmares are in hiding once again. I slip on my jeans, make some coffee, go to work and wait for the nighttime. Angie Scheitel |
| The Cave Water drips. Footsteps fall behind me. With neonate eyes I see others, in stadium seating, they can’t see me. I am behind them. Backlit and bound to a chair, metal claws grip my face. I smell sunlight scalding the back of my head, biting deliriously I am the aftertaste of Brimstone and Oil Shadows and echoes alone define existence— Screams of acknowledgement shake my soul, break my restraints. Footsteps fade. I stand and fall, my legs weak. I crawl with fingernails and toes, scraping naked skin against rock floor. Inches and hours pass until I am out— where the sun blisters eyes— skin burns black with joyous welts of Freedom— and silence resonates in skulls blocking all sound and all that remains is the question— Do I go back? Angie Scheitel |
| Laundry Day A single bare light bulb swings slow to the rhythm of the tumbled and agitated in a concrete tomb located deep in the bowels of an urban complex which emits the fumes of detergent and urine. Shiny yellow walls veil nicotine stains where at night homeless sleep and prostitutes sell their wares. Here—among the city’s discarded, my clothes lie weeping on white painted steel sodden and foamy. They weep with me for the loss of the blue sweater. Three soapy tears crawl down the washer remembering how that blue felt against my face the day you left. My fist pounds. A filth-encrusted old man in the corner sits up the blue poking out from behind his thin coat. The blue that smelled of winter leaves and summer snow. I look into his droopy eyes. Back to the sweater. Droopy eyes. I smile, apologize, restart my laundry; I start the climb back home. Angie Scheitel |
This site was last updated 04/30/06
