Life is constructed into a thousand picture-time frames upon the arrival of every minute. Could it be that we are all famous? Perhaps we are all filmmakers inside ourselves. This lobby is filled with cigarette smoke that hovers like still-life portraits in the air; how it permeates my clothes! Everyone is sitting as if they know one another; but their brothers and friends bet their cash on loneliness. "Paint a pretty picture on a single frame," one said, "You would never see it, but you would know it was there!" An old man was standing next to me speaking through our psycho-subliminal surface: "What you see is Life, that is who I am." he introduced, jumping another frame. His white beard suggested wisdom, though cigar smoke is our clouds and fluorescent is our sun. He was the simple introduction that spoke riddles no one could understand: "The cow has died and the cat jumped over the moon; he is rotting peacefully under the light of a candle- stick while Jack sips its milk with a spoon. We are sweating dew drops and driving the Interstate Mansion! Glorious is she when ... " But the film snapped itself in two and whipped about violently in its spool. The old man disintegrated, yes, a bright light flashed forth from the empty projector and each lonely brother and friend disappeared. (they became the interlinear spaces between TIME magazine's pages.) I kicked Jack in the hip and a mouthful of milk sprayed from his mouth. "Come now," said I,"The stage has abandoned us, the act is over. If we don't leave now, we will ALL be trapped in Time Hotel's Lobby." (c) Daniel J. Dyer All rights reserved.
Reason for writing:
Eagle's "Hotel California" was playing on the radio.
I was also depressed, so I needed something to write about.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Daniel J Dyer.