Find yourself wading through the dark, yet find yourself squinting. In a room surrounded by people you don’t know. It’s yours, your time to come. That’s what people are screaming. What that means no one knows of course, and so they scream louder.
Trust me. I’m screaming with them.
It’s young, the night. It’s chaos. Wars I can feel in my heart, as pure as the first ever bead of sweat, the stench of a kiss over bloody teeth. The first skipped heart beat when we learned things weren’t alright. God, let us breathe. This is the beginning.
Let's sail in this sea of charms.
Let's drown underneath the stars.
I feel the sun bursting in from the corners, ringing something like Saturn wrapped in sequined dead fish skin. I close my eyes and the mind starts working and these shapes only get sharper, piercing the pillow fight wet dream of this being a room where everything was ever alright. Don’t think about it, don’t close your eyes because that will only make you realize there is no escape. It is the beginning. Sharp blue beams ripple and weave like the folds of our growing brains.
See I try to look up,
To the sky,
But my eyes burn
Find yourself squinting in the dark, pinching your eyes shut, hoping that the Star Wars missile battles don’t drill you into a seizure. Your heartbeat is a blipping submarine approaching the murky ink of a nightmare. This is a warfield. It would be beautiful, the seizure, with everyone’s heads tomahawking in orbit around a blinking gray cloud. With a woman in a paper halo receiving something arbitrary. With the stethoscope to your throat telling you those tingles mean you’ve got a fucked up machine. With a sapphire river funneling through your temple, your hand to your toy machine and your other hand balled toward the source. And it is already happening, the seizure, like soda cans dipped in magma. Melt if you’ve got those tingles like I do. Melt if it hurts as good for you.
You make the water warm
You taste foreign, and I know you can see
The cord break away
You wonder if you are in it alone, this warfield. Or if we are in this whole thing together, and if your fist, pounding through smoke clouds and cancer rays is the same fist as your neighbor. Fury. Squeeze. Sweat. Twitch. Blink. Is there a hand that will fit in yours in this apple lollipop inferno? Tremble. Tremble. Scream louder.
We live to cease, understand
So help us all we do. Lock the doors from the outside in. Turn the dials up and bleed the lights and let us start to choke. Show the blurry temple at dawn with the sun peaking overhead, show the girl wading in a thick cherry wave, and show the nighttime traffic gliding slickly at the foot of city skyscrapers. If there is nothing to be learned then there is nothing to be learned. Feel the chord break in order to taste something foreign and we all live to cease. Understand. Let our eyes roll back and twitch in ecstasy. Let us motherfuck this world.
This is the Warfield. We are the Warfield. 6/13/2011.
Emil DeAndreis is a twenty six year old substitute teacher and high school baseball coach in San Francisco. He is published in over twenty journals. His book, Beyond Folly, will be released in 2013 by Blue Cubicle Press. In his free time he plays inadequate rounds of golf, and jazz gigs— jazz being the only artistic vocation which pays less than writing. His pilgrimage toward an MFA began this year at San Francisco State.