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Sat, May 16 2026, 1:44pm PDT [ Login ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, 2, 3, 4, [5], 6, 7 ]

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Date Posted: Mon, Sep 20 2004, 4:11am PDT
Author: Darren Olsen
Subject: Dandelions in bulletholes, we stand in our civilian clothes..

A hula hoop, a human chain
to warm our hands and find out way
when all the lights go out.
a raincoat and a french beret
the rolling hills of past mistakes
the quiet under cloud.
And I will long look to the churning sea
this call to arms means wrap them around the first person that you see.


Hands tucked in his pockets, head down to avoid the pelting on the heavy fall rain, the young man hurried toward the lodge, his thick curls weighted down with the wetness, little rivulets of wayward rain zigzagging across his smooth forehead. Giving a little shake to his head as he reached for the doorknob, an entire scene flashed before his eyes - two years ago in Ellerdale when he'd first come upon a place like this. Her smile, the way the sun glinted off of her blonde hair just so. The crochet haltertop that she wore to the protests - they were images so clearly printed in his head that he wondered if he'd just wandered in one giant circle these entire two years. He shook his head again, but this time for the effect of shaking the cobwebby memories out of his head. He wasn't one to pine for someone, to miss someone, especially a girl, and it didn't happen very often that he thought of her and their long, tangled, strung out nights, but it happened occasionally. He checked these images, filed them back away in the drawer of his mind of things to forget, and then pulled the door open. There. It wasn't like Ellerdale at all - it was an entirely different place, entirely different people - this would be a nice fresh start after nights in dusty cars, sleeping by the light of the radio, and seedy hotels with stains on the sheets. He almost let a sigh of relief.

He wore a black shirt with cagey white print stating "War is Murder" and a faithful pair of worn corduroy pants, equally faithful sneaks slapping the floor until he realized what a puddle they made and toed them off onto the welcome mat. The warmth of the lodge was a welcome change from the cold of his travels - whether he had been in a heated bus or walking down the street, there was always a coldness - always something that chilled him to the bone until he could settle down once again. He went toward the fire, hoping to get rid of the chill.

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