Prose Poetry Prose

and there silence was no more

The Big C

Fear in the modern sense of the word is now almost called the Big C. Fear that lives in the back shelf, by all intent, with utmost will, creeps in to the center almost to the right, smack dab eye-level and it carries a nametag. “Hi, I am Big C”. Nothing spectacular. Not like the big guy on campus you’d smell the waft of his men’s cologne a mile away. Big is almost diminutive. Almost un-extroverted. Somewhat like that creepy crawley spider knotting its way through the different angles of your room until you notice the invisible, silver threads hitting your face saying “I’m here. I’m here!” And then there he is. Your newfound friend. Your constant companion. Fabricating fairy tales and stories with vague endings. Making you laugh. Sometimes cry. Sometimes worried. Giving you bags under your eyes but you try to drink your caramel machiatto or your the cheapest hot tea by the side of tempting doughnuts and you drink until that rawness of your throat soothes into oblivion. He holds your hand. He participates in your prayers. He is there. Fearing your same fears. Whispering to you an indomitable hope. Rending you wordless until you express yourself in abstract fullness. Fear in the modern sense of the word is almost called Big C. It is if you call it that.

I’m Listening

Here I am in full attention. Caffeine-buzzed. Confused. Barely making any sense. Again. But I am listening. Yes. I heard you say that. Well which one is it, the well-done or the well-made? There are silver streaks in slivered fish, raw and wonderful. Now if I can only dip that in some soy with a dash of vinegar. Oh, yes. I need to nod my head for you. Like you were saying something comprehensible. Wait. Is that gum under the desk? Who put it there? How old is it? I might need to forensically analyze this. Investigate. Negate what mysteries have been happening when I am gone. Good. Yes. I nod again. My neck is sore from all this smiling. Nodding. Pretending like a mascara in a mud mask. Permanently old but trying for youth. Oh I am listening. I try to make that eye-contact that the purple book on personnel ethics said. But wait. Are you wearing your frown. It is so forward. So protruding. Perhaps an R&R? Who says that anymore. Me. Huh. Only I say this but not out loud. Not verbally. But oh do I say it in my head. I shout it out as I smile again signaling to you that I am listening. Really…