Cruise Control (Dividers on the Parkway)

Cruise Control (Dividers on the Parkway) – by Kevin Kraemer

What makes me not drive this car into a brick wall? Or off of a twenty story bridge? The slightest drop of my left hand could easily carry me into the metal barricade. Then again, the smallest pressure on the gas pedal from my right foot could send me into oncoming traffic. How little we think of our cars and trucks and SUVs as deadly machines that cannot help but follow our orders. They do our bidding everyday. They cannot escape our control. The only things altering a calm cruise on the highway into a final fatal ride are a few synapses in our brains. They tell us to stay safe and on course. Sometimes I feel I could snap at any second and force myself to forget about those silly rules of the road. Take my Ford Mustang and slam it through a store front window. And they say, “What doesn’t kill you only makes your stronger.” So if I survive, maybe the crash will steer my life into a better direction. Maybe I will feel something more real than this life that I am living. If not, hey, if not.

© September 2007

Closing the Shades

Closing the Shades – by Kevin Kraemer

As I stand above the shadow of my own self that is cast by the streetlight above me, I see it growing and growing. But I am not moving. The tips of my toes are dangling into this empty void of nothingness. The bigger my shadow grows, the less I can see of the trees and houses that surround me. The sidewalk is being eaten and the sky is disappearing like a dog licking a dinner plate clean of food. Except this darkness is full of tainted, polluted things. And it is licking clean the world that I live in. The world that I know and call home. The scene is a painting and some disturbed artist is renovating his masterpiece with a fresh coat of black. Every brushstroke is genius as more and more of the colors disappear. Pretty soon I can feel the heels of my feet barely hanging onto the ledge of the sidewalk that is struggling to stay intact. Losing my balance I begin to topple over; first my head, then my knees. My shoulders, then my knees again. My stomach turns and my heart jumps twenty stories before plummeting back to the ribs that fail to protect it. There is no bottom. There is no ceiling or boundaries. The shadow feels as if it is pushing down on me. And up on me. There is no way out. The pain from failure, from not knowing who I am is apparent as I tumble down and around this free falling nightmare. The one-tone black silhouette of who I am is wrapping and crushing me and my thoughts. And as I struggle for strangled air I can see a portrait of myself painted in what seems to look like flowing sheets in front of me. Smiling, yet frowning. Eyes excited, yet full of tears. A flask full of all emotions, shaken and poured out into glasses for its guests. Looking at myself I become confused. I am too familiar with this feeling. This sort of reflection of myself begins to drip, trickle, and dribble down the frozen sheets and onto my legs. Cold to the touch and seeing myself beginning to fade away, I reach for my legs to only find my hands to fall to the same fate. There is no bottom. The dimness that has fallen onto my body spreads ever so quietly. There is no ceiling or boundaries. My already suffocating lungs compact on the frigidness of the shadow. There is no escape. The shade blankets over the remains of my falling body. No way out. No me.

© December 2006

Irrigation Irritation

Irrigation Irritation - by Kevin Kraemer

The water, exploding from the shower head, rampages through his dark, thick hair. For a split second before molding to his scalp, each individual hair quickly darts away as if attempting to avoid the sudden attack. His eyes remain open only for an instant as the river trickles sporadically down the front of his face, and although delayed, he shuts his eyes tight, building dams to block the flood from causing destruction. His whole world goes black. Reaching his mouth, he sighs externalizing his angst and pain, forcing the water to delve further past his unshaven face. All hairs on his arms and neck quickly stand at attention as the blistering cascades tumble down his scrawny exterior; the chills, a sense he has felt all too often, this time caused by the exceptionally hot water on his cold, pale skin. Why? he thinks to himself and leans back his head to catch these uncontrollable rapids. He adjusts his position from side to side, trying to leave his life only if for one moment of tranquility. With the perfect angle the water rushes past his left ear, and then his right, and then both as to cut him off from the universe. The water howls with a deafening, yet delightful voice as it envelopes him. He breathes shallowly through his nose, fighting the stray droplets from entering and with barely enough oxygen to insure comfort. There is a strong beauty in the forceful water and the boisterous sound and the unclean taste. His heart rate slows. The uneasy thoughts he had been bearing all day melt away just as easily as they had been collected and flow from his head, past his reddening cheeks, and are swept along the graceful river. After a few minutes, he is truly clean. Even though cleanliness on all levels has been reached, he is frozen and unable to break free of the trance this water has given him. A new hope in tomorrow is in his eyes, if only he could escape the soothing protection of the waterfalls. He coughs. The misty air becomes more and more humid by the second. He breathes heavier. The outrageous current running past his ears teases his equilibrium, tilting him to the side. His shoulder is braced by the soap holder and as he reacts to this change, his left ear pops, touching the steamy air for the first time in what seems an eternity of bliss. He straightens himself out and frees the other half of his body, regaining strength with every drop swirling down the shiny silver drain beneath his feet. And with that, the water is stopped.

© October 2005

The Response

The Response - by Kevin Kraemer

The alarm clock has read 3:46am for the last twenty minutes. All the world is asleep and he is there, still, staring at his bluish glowing monitor in the dark, chilly room. The air conditioner has been blowing directly on his face, but he has neither the motivation nor the strength to reach over and turn it off. Soft, but angry music seeps out of the speakers and rides the walls around him like a carousel; spinning and fading out like a sparkler on the fourth of July. His eyes droop, however he feels no need to rest. The overactive thoughts he plays with in his mind cause the insomnia and the disturbing peacefulness. The window shade on the window across from the desk where he sits, hunched over, is open widely. A spotlight shines brightly from the expansive murder black sky and reflects from his haunted brown eyes as he glances out. Reflected with the light are also his passions and discomforts; colors begin to dance among the blackness of the room as he falls slowly from his chair and onto the floor with a surprisingly thunderous crash. His eyes remain open and unblinking. Images appear projected on the ceiling, no longer hidden behind his eyes and held back by his eyelids. Five tickets excluding the sixth person. A dark blue night sky is accommodating a sole star dimly twinkling. A room filled with smiles, laughter, and excitement is refracted from a reserved boys thick glasses, smudged with tears. "These are the best times of your life," he has been told. "Live it up. Enjoy your life. Have fun." These words echo as the theatre curtain closes on the beige ceiling above him. "Be yourself." But it is hard to be something so different from normal.

© October 2005