Skip to main content

Not All Stops are Called

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #188.


It's always dark in the mall that died; the seats feel gritty,
the windows are blank and all the stores empty.
There's one door open back behind the large department store
I slip in and walk over the torn, glassy floor.

Someone has filmed the life as it left, most people prefer it gone;
consumption is always deadly, some moan.
But I continue to walk through these laminate halls to remember
the books, my friends, the lit windows...

It's always dark in the last hallways; the hard seats left empty;
I'll rest between starvation and plenty.
The benches remain, the walls rot, and ceilings spread stains
I close my eyes and wait.

This is the first last stop at this station, open since devastation.

Theoretically, with Thanksgiving past and a chill weekend to remind us it's no longer a lingering summer/fall combo, we're supposed to have moved on to decorating for Christmas. In the spirit of fiction, let's say that happened. Let's say the last few days of November consisted of putting the finishing touches on a few zines (including one about a fantastic convenience store...cover below...and a rat who desperately needs a snack). 


Let's say we're about to heat up the hot chocolate, pour it in a driving mug, and head out to look at the first Christmas lights of the season in a car full of carols. Let's say the holidays have returned with a cheery vengeance. Merry, merry. Hope your cocoa is warm and your bells clear in the night! (and that your entire family doesn't come down with we-haven't-been-out-in-public-in-months colds)

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Carrie Van HornNovember 27, 2021 at 1:56 PM

    This is a new favorite for me Chrissa! There is a lost and grieving feeling but also hope. I absolutely love the line, "resting between starvation and plenty" You have such a gorgeous talent to dig deep and pull us to the heart of things. Christmas time has been a bittersweet time for me for so many years. My brother passed away of a massive heart attack on Christmas day in 2002. Next year will mark 20 years. 💙🕊️ Sorry I went in such a sad rant. I just know I can relate to the sentiments you have shared. I do hope your Thanksgiving was filled with good food and happiness with some sweet dogs close to your side. 💖

    ReplyDelete
  2. FireblossomNovember 27, 2021 at 5:48 PM

    I like watching urbex vids on Youtube, and I've seen several about dead malls. It's an eerie vibe and you've captured it here, especially in the little details

    ReplyDelete
  3. Gillena CoxNovember 28, 2021 at 5:55 AM

    "open since devastation"
    A thought provoking phrase.
    What will the near future bring

    Happy Sunday. Thanks for dropping by my blog

    Much💜love

    ReplyDelete
  4. ✿November 28, 2021 at 7:22 AM

    This is phenomenal.

    ReplyDelete
  5. qbitNovember 28, 2021 at 6:32 PM

    "It's always dark in the mall that died" -- that is so great and ominous and true.

    ReplyDelete
  6. JimDecember 2, 2021 at 9:31 AM

    Wow!!! I love these "abandoned places" writes, yours is sooo good.
    We shop Walmart for the large box of 30 Swiss Miss packets of
    Hot Chocolate. I'll have a cup this evening, hoping you do also.
    ..

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...
15 comments
Read more

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...
14 comments
Read more

A Single (Terrible) Poem

 I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies.    This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem?  -- Chrissa
11 comments
Read more