Walking the Streets of Denver

I walked the streets of Denver yesterday, defining my existence.  The simple rushes of a thousand pedestrians wisped past like a warm current.  No eye contact but the frivolous, I registered the empty sky past fifty story buildings.  Ripped toward the clouds, the lights held pure concentration.  The people around me fell, enamored by the tense city lights.  Ghastly praises came of leisurely strolls,

“Hurry up, let’s go.”

Because even on a holiday the necessity is lost in walking, and found only in arriving.  My gregarious nature faded until silent.  The mistletoe of decor bore no draw to embrace.  These minute details of a flickering night created stilled ambiance, and the people journeyed hurriedly through the streets.  

I thought about my gloves for minutes before bearing them. It was a chore of refuting stored heat in a precursor to increased warmth. Indignantly sliding the left on, then the right. Cursing the bitter air for chewing my fingertips raw.  I drew close to a window and watched bottle service tables fill with blazer clad men.  Some prepped hair laughed and a slip-tie bobbed, his head lounging down on his chest. It was a glimmer of enrapture.  

Was this the place? Corresponding time and allocation of my inner will, I wondered whether McCormick's would ignite the ember and invigorate me to flame.  I am a blazing piece of cherry when lit.  I smolder under weight of a hefty rain, but rarely extinguish.  So why does the reflection continue strolling.  The box of my playwright locked and shining like a disenfranchised owner who sits low behind his shop counter.

The buildable dangers of new found motivation come from wonders.  ‘If, then’ statements hypothesize the alternative force of a day’s work.  I have memorized the tide that pulls boats over.  So when the moon pulls a force up the beachhead, I neatly compile a list of other days worth remembering. I build a mock impression of the scene in my glass house, listening to waves crash over handfuls of pebbles.   

A desirable outcome engorges itself in my mild manner, yet hearing rocks clap for the rumble of voice builds statues for glory.  With which alteration does the wind blow harder?  I imagine the salt wears holes in my clothes all the same, but does it taste sweeter when packaged?  

Is it a problem to criticize the alter ego? There sits an identifier within a glass box that nobody admits to;  A boldly expressed opinion of each idle stroller roaming the strip mall.  The identifier echoes whispers back at the people.  People walk by and smile, conspire to rid the box of its noiseless function, and give the inhabitant a breath of the world.  

The monosyllabic phrase disregarding the honest expression of inner confusion; the nonsense of  build-a-thought programing gives us a simple syrup tinge to a bitter cocktail.  We are the caregivers and voice builders. The aching cold wind rattles the glass box, and all the echoes are lost in the quick transit from building to building.

A mirror switches between two single dimensions.  From a rectangle of pieces shattered at the edge comes the desolate smile that aches to be recognized. So be it, with a few steps forward any one of us can reestablish ourselves as the boxed.  Mimicking the long drawn out symbols of a life uttered without dignity.  Course sailed with  a societal breeze, open chords sing as so many trip over the curbs on their way to their subconsciousness.  

Mysterious as the cause be, a broken mast can catch no wind; and a shattered mirror gives a distorted reflection at best.  Broken, pieced together as exhausted eyes, bitten nose, dry skin.  

A disposed flyer slaps over pavement, its path set to be trampled by a thousand bystanders.  I step forward in long strides, pin it to concrete with my foot, and eradicate the mess established by unanimated strangers.  Whether the lackadaisical melt of old ice continues, the water left unattended will cause cold to others.  If I encapsulate the moment, freeze frame the scene, maybe I won’t have to dry my shoes by the heat vent.  

The case may be that I launch hopeless nobodies into the pit of water.  I can curse their withered toes to stabbing wetness.  Maybe I hop with enthusiasm, attempt to fly past the problem and forget the woes by mid stride.  A mile long stretch of walking bodies files overtop the ice. Not one person slips, and I confer congratulations onto society.  

I stood in front of Union Station, alit by clothy white and a fog filled blue. The ease of acceptance pulsed to my warmed fingers.  A memory of nights singing and mornings sleeping heavily came drifting upon me.  My silent smile stretched blood into my face again.  A cordial glance from a bowtied valet let me know my night was finished.  

The whispered words of reply sighed below cold breezes.  I felt no worries compared to heated moments, and the glass box shone through, empty this time.  My head held a lock smashed by civilians.  It was a camaraderie built by the destruction of separators.  No conversation rattled or echoed off containing walls. The lights merely flew through air toward the darkness, and evaporation of fears left me breathing easily by midnight.