floating

 

By Max Bondovic

 

Self portrait her…
Not a very artsy picture…
Not a very exciting picture…
Almost a nothing picture…
Is she nothing…?

She stands…
Between two doors
The broken one to her back…
The invisible one to her front…

She stands…
As testament…
As something…
As anything…

She still stands past all her nothingness…
Taller than any soldier…
Doesn’t care if we know it or can’t see it…
She is already moving in her stillness…
Already singing in her silence…

Can you hear the song inside her?
Inside her clothes?
Inside her hair?
It is melancholy…yet it’s more…so much more…

Getting louder in the hallway…
As if everyone is playing the same song for her…
Her eyes have been so black…for too long…
Almost touching forever…
Towards more black in front of her…it’s the brightest black…
Brighter than any black sun that has never wanted to rise for her…

Her suitcase…empty & light…for new clothes…new shoes…new laughter…new tears…
New…new…new…
Its a funeral & a birth…

Wait…let’s wait…
To watch her first step…

 

Max BondovicMax Bondovic writes without impetus nor with direction. He kick starts his motorcycle in the underground of the Midwest. Rides the broken roads like a pen on paper. His existential Sun rises and sets like a fragile hourglass. He knows every grain of sand is either a word written, or just a breath exhaled in silence thru his exhaust. So, he rides faster, drinks a beer to fuel his inertia, lights an absurd cigarette to just watch the smoke. Compressed between the Sun and the steel. The music of the air is the perfect soundtrack till he forgets to flip the hourglass over, and just runs out of sand… out of fuel… out of road… out of words.

 

 

Photo: (source)

Editor: Dana Gornall

 

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