If You Are

This is part of the 5xFat series. The 5xFat series is a collection of musically inspired writing. I listen to one selected music creation by DJX on repeat while I write until I have some semblance of a finished piece. DJX posts a new creation each day so you can check out his YouTube page daily for more beats; I’m not that efficient so check back here often for new works. Feel free to be inspired by the music or words and do your own thing. We would love for you to share your creations with us in the comments here or DJX’s YouTube page.

You plant your feet on the ground. You tilt your chin up, adjusting the angle of your face to better absorb the sunlight. You feel the gentle breeze caress your cheeks. You smile.

The breeze grows stronger and with it, your smile wider. You hold the arm straps of your pack tight. You start to feel a soft pull at your back at first. The force tightens. You can no longer resist; you can no longer remain stationary.

You are pulled backwards. Your feet slowly scrape along the dirt and gravel. You do not panic. You continue to grip your arm straps and smile, eyes closed and your eyelids sopping up sunlight.

The ropes are fully taught. You don’t need to check them. The force of their pull replaces gravity. The wind takes over, opening the parachute and hauling you into the sky.

There is no more ground beneath your feet.

You rise above the earth. You open your eyes but you don’t look down. You scan the heavens. You smile wider.

You float. The wind pushes. Your parachute ascends. You are a dandelion seed, if you are anything anymore.

You reach your destination. The parachute descends like a feather to your feet. You smile your biggest smile. You grab the ropes of your parachute and slowly, carefully, pull it towards you. You fold it neatly and gently place it in your pack.

You cannot remove the backpack. The arm straps will always be there. The parachute is at your back, if you wish to use it.

But you won’t.

Image by RENE RAUSCHENBERGER from Pixabay

Accordion Streets

I walk the same lonely streets
on loop.
Silent canvas shoes
soften concrete.
The people here
are placeholders of time
occupying present memories
without feeling;
without a destination.

I walk the same lonely streets;
the accordion streets.
They stretch thin–
I cross with one
G I A N T    S T E P
They grow wide–
I’m
        dodging
| c | | b | | b |
| a | | u | | i |
| r |    | s | | k |
| s | | e | | e |
| | | s | | s |
They gush and ripple–
I’m hop- -ping
                   on
                  logs,
r ing t e e riv
   id h fl f th    e
                        ow o r

I walk the same lonely streets
until I stumble;
until I sink beneath concrete;
until my lungs fill with stone;
until I pull myself up;
until I purge dust and sand from my being;
until I reach my destination.

Image by Thanks for your Like • donations welcome from Pixabay

Two Trains

This piece is intended for both beats. Listen in any order.

Two trains
move at different speeds.

The first barrels down the track.
It hopes nothing stands in its way.
It hopes to avoid the inevitable destruction
it will cause.
The precious cargo it carries
is hope.

The second is cautious.
It moves slowly as to not wake the sleepy dreamers
in their cozy beds,
moonlight smeared across their faces.
But the train is old.
It rattles;
it shakes the dreamers awake.
The hazardous cargo it carries
is fear.

Two trains
or is it one?

A look to one side
and you are lost
in open wilderness.
Mountains backdrop meadows
of wildflowers
and peaceful beasts.

The view across the train
displays towering cityscapes
and pressing concrete walls
with frantic, hasty graffiti
you cannot read.

Two trains
conducting your mind.

Basil

It smells like my uncle.
It smells like my mom.
It smells like her sauce
’cause her sauce is the bomb.

It smells like my cousins.
It smells like my dad
when he ate all the leftovers
and made me feel sad.

It smells like my brother,
except for his feet.
He can make some mean meatballs
and it smells like the meat.

It smells like the garden
when I’m cutting the grass.
If I eat too much,
it even smells like my–

Naw, but I can wish.

It smells like my grandpa
when he crushes a leaf.
It smells like his mouth
when it’s stuck in his teeth.

It smells like my grandma,
whom I sure miss the most.
It smells like her apron–
even smells like her ghost.

It smells like my memories
from times long ago;
it smells like my childhood,
where I wish I could go.

It smells like the only
smell I want nasal.
It’s my favorite smell
and that smell is basil.