Stepping out of the shower by Andrew Stergiou

Stepping out of the shower, over to a working turned on laptop

Where sitting all day and night the scribe scribbled

Pressured by days numbered and counted

In isolation that played mind games on the person

On whom preyed the vultures of society, in a  matrix, on the internet

Worlds came before that mind, and found life, but foreign

The question lied as to:

Whither or not those worlds were real

Keying words into weaving a story that life took shape

Form for what purpose, and towards what end?

As fresh fruit ripe on the branch, to the taste we were thankful

Ready to fall due to being in a ripeness

In putrid odors in meaning and purpose in stench

Fruit on a tree which comes to fruition has already lost value

As a beginning was not a beginning, but an end

Struggling in recalling Momma's words memories

In a chore of finding lost words often unspoken

Tears uncounted, and tearfully unmeasured

In tensions bursting forth when alone where no one is alone

Really alone, no one is ever really alone

In a soliloquy of strange unseen matters

In thought a value of a freshness that is questioned

Left in doubt emotions some may find real

We are forced to examine thinking them

Feeling them in perspective

Emotions examined, quantified and qualified, based on emotions

As thoughts are thoughts, and feelings were feelings

We judge feelings by feeling

As the twain shall never meet as such

Strange and foreign in the afterlife of afterthought

In memoriam of events without new news

Once again brought to the verge of tears seeing death

Without self, without words, spoken in mindful moments

Most true in a mind cluttered with thoughts and secrets

In a mind of supposed events seeming never to occur

Of supposed deaths, or murder mysteries found but unsure

As being when no news of any such event was ever yet heard

When as of yet  no such reality was ever acknowledged

Though seen as real and existent

As there has been no new news for years, many years

In sights unseen under pressure

The logic of the human mind cracks

For what it is it was not, though it is none the less the same

Finishing up in recalled the events that transpired

Sitting to type a story the mind distracted wandered

First from the page and the word

Then Second to the text and the website

Third to the functionality of missing work

Then fourth to a thirst of coffee

Five that resulted in spilling a bowl of bean soup

On the carpet, on the Fridge, into the fridge it dripped

The stream of consciousness tossed

Garments coated with bean soup flew

Into the large blue laundry bag nearby went T-shirts

A Black Eyed concoction wiped from the fridge top

With all clothes removed

The body walked naked cleaning  the house as bodies do

Navy, Pinto, Lima, and Kidney beans

Sounds of ripe fatulence was ignored the naked butt spoke

One of the best batches of bean soup was lost forever

Screw clothes the holy grail of the ultimate secret of bean soup was lost forever

The pleasure of eating in a sin of gluttony became a chore of penance

Turning toward cleaning the house that began by "doing dishes"

The slave washing large dinner plates as they crowded the small bathroom sink

Watched the silverware vigilantly

As the Sink hardly big enough to rest the soap on

Gobbled silverware for dessert when incidentally it entered the throat

Vacuuming dirty carpeted floors, that floor surpassed their normal selves

In being a pain a small vacuum cleaner

(a machine not a maid or servant life style)

Painfully the vacuum jammed several times

Unjamming it caused dust to become an irritant

Made sure exercise was had today so when it was sort of over

Sitting the room noticibly colder as the feet became cold

Looking back I saw Sandburg in Chicago, Ginsberg in New York, and Momma

The heater turns on every few minutes or so punctuating thoughts

Supplementing the large old radiator standing four feet high

Off to my left positioned in a far corner of the room

That was an artifact of of the 1880s

What was once the front parlor sitting room of a gas lit rectory

In glory days past and gone now a rooming house

For the poor and working poor

Memories pass the mind weary of their first writing

In a comentary then a "poem" no longer crisp the wit

Hard tense muscles trained and disciplined

Racing, pacing, striving towards a goal line

A naked body took a hot shower that cleaned the pores

Washing dust and the smell of mixed bean soup

Sitting now wearing a clean T-shirt and underwear

I remember Momma and she was happy to know