orientation

The cursor appears and disappears,

in and out of existence just like that,

lulling my mind into semi-consciousness.

Where does it go, and what brings it back?

I'm done with college, papers, everything.

Six-week freshman, senior at heart.

A surreal clarity has overwhelmed me.

Edges sharpen, sounds penetrate,

and one forbidden thought hovers

on the rim of my awareness...

but a sharp digital buzz startles me.

I find my phone and silence it, staring

at the beige wall and wondering

if it's really leaning toward me.

I have to escape...

through a carpet of clothes,

out to the cold central room devoid

of anything but pre-existing furniture:

no TV, no focus, spotless floor and walls.

More like a waiting room than a home.

Kitchen unused except sink piled high.

I swallow the lump in my throat, gather

myself and my jacket and keys

and abandon my phone on the couch.

I exit, navigating the stench

of burnt food and a symphony muffled

by cheap drywall: thumps and soprano cries

of coitus, booming bass of a sports announcer,

alto dance music, the tenor

of drunken laughter. I descend

the empty stairwell where a fluorescent light

flickers then dies as I pass and step

over a large crack that slithers

across the concrete landing.

It has widened since I moved in.

It seems hungry. Maybe I'll feed it.

The distant clock tower strikes eleven

as I push the doors and inhale

bitter autumn air. The immense moon

stares down, bathing the earth

in its bloodshot glow, the force of it

breathing life into a legion of leaves

that skitter across the bricks,

searching for a resting place. I search, too,

along the concourse still and silent

as if everyone has been swallowed by the night.

Or maybe transformed, replaced, possessed.

In the annex parking lot, I see

a drunken frat boy wrapped

in a cruel cocoon of cellophane,

squirming in a pool of lamplight

on the edge of the map. I walk on.

Campus is a haunted maze

of winding sidewalks, yawning alleys,

staircases to nowhere that manifest

and twist into new configurations

only when the sun isn't watching.

Orange lamps color buildings ancient,

sinister, abandoned long ago.

The stadium-shadow hums like a sleeping beast

awakened once a week when thousands

come to worship and it roars

to life. A scarecrow glides past,

shirt ripped down the middle and strands

hanging below the waist of his shorts

toward his sandals like the remnants

of some unholy attack. His wide eyes stare

at the horizon with anticipation,

but I look and nothing is there

but the brutal symmetry

of the liberal arts building looming

like a dark temple dedicated to a forgotten god.

Three girls stumble past carrying heels,

dresses sagging over bony frames

that lean on each other and cackle at nothing,

old in the shadows like crones

returning from some black mass.

In the upper quad, the normally proud

white plantation-style face of the old

president's mansion is pallid grey,

and the air thickens like mud.

It starts to drizzle, and I stalk

down College Street where floodlights

cast an eerie glow onto the blood-colored brick

of the old clock tower pointing to the sky

where I now see no stars, no black space, only

a menacing orange firmament. And the tower

waits like a watchful sentinel,

and I grow dizzy, and halos dance

around the lamps as I stumble,

shadow stretching, shortening, doubling.

A passing car beeps its horn

and someone yells words indecipherable.

They pass and the night is empty again.

Across the street, the glowing letters

on the sign for the Heart of Campus,

a trashy motel, have burnt out so they read

like the start of some neon prophecy:

Hear o Campus. I laugh

then flinch as the clock tower rings,

scolding, transmitting frequencies

not meant for me. I am so far from home.

Headlights appear over the rise,

approaching fast as the bells shake the earth.

I watch the twin lights grow until

they envelop my vision. They just

might save me. What else could?

The roar of the truck overpowers the bells

and becomes the most beautiful sound

I've ever heard as I wipe my eyes,

clear my throat and step into the road,

and the lights merge into one powerful sun,

and I turn away unable to face it,

and I am falling up, up, into brightness

all around, and a rhythmic tone like the bells

but quicker, synthetic, and shadowy faces

float over, speaking without sound

and then recede as a kind of gravity

pulls me down, down,

until my face sizzles and I wake,

my cheek pressed against cool earth.

I cough dust, sit up, and rub my eyes.

My left leg is killing me.

Sunlight glares through dirty windows

and disappointment trickles through my body.

Outside, a cluster of lonely grey warehouses

on the north edge of campus.

The rising sun ignites the sheet metal

siding and sets the old windows ablaze.

Nauseous, I lean and taste warm bile

pushing up my throat and notice

a Rorschach test of gore covering my shirt.

I remove dried flecks then lose interest

and, turning with a sigh, limp toward campus.

The sun shines through a blanket of clouds

that trap moisture from the night's rain.

Wet concrete steams and reflects heat up

as I make my way across the brick-paved desert

through hundreds of wavering student-mirages

floating across its glimmering surface.

It's shaping up to be one of those

contradictory late-autumn days

when a cold wind blows but the sun blazes.

This must be a purgatory

where God or the universe or whatever

is slowly purging my sins away,

but I must simmer here before ascending.

On the way back to my dorm, I see

a white truck inching up the concourse

with a hose the circumference of

a basketball hoop that a groundskeeper holds

while he works his way down a long pile

of dead leaves blown against the curb.

The hose devours them by the thousands

and snakes up to a tank mounted on the truck,

and a growing cloud of brown leaf-dust

billows from a pipe at the top.

And as I approach, the grinding

of hidden machinery grows

and fills me with immense dread,

and the acrid cloud embraces me,

veiling the sun in a blanket of red.

I hold my breath and squint

to keep the particles out, but I

last only seconds before inhaling

the putrid dust, which makes me sneeze,

which makes me breathe even more.

Maybe this purgatory won't end

until I step across that platform

one blustery May day and grasp

the diploma and shake hands with the dean

and walk into a new life,

or maybe I'll carry it with me

for the rest of my days like a secret scar.

But for now, all I can do is endure

the mirage while it lasts.

Wake in the morning, sleep at night,

and watch the world appear and disappear,

in and out of existence just like that.