And Woody Herman Played
Blues in the Night.
A malignant moon
shines his metallic claws -
combs my hair and brushes me forward.
I am alone in the shadowy crooks
of a poisoned metropolis.
A clandestine garbage chute -
where waifs and strays burn
within the fetid bowels
of a cavernous concrete underbelly.
The orphanage awaits my arrival,
as muted outcries are crushed
beneath my footsteps.
A parentless prison
teeters atop Utopia's dreaded brim;
the hamlet where Orwell slew Hilton.
St. Peter has been released
and no longer tends the kitchen.
Agony and angel wings reneged
a redundant brotherhood of sorts.
His recipe for remorse shall be missed.
Blues in the Night.
In the distance,
feigned epileptic outbursts
placates a patron's fears.
Caffeine injections
stimulates another's venial sins
as it magnifies their cardinal options.
An insomnious woman converses
with a napkin holder. The surface
is dull and unreflective, like she.
Banter never-to-be heard
by her never-to-be gentleman caller.
I am home –
amongst the dead I adore.
A haggard waitress serves me a menu.
A laminated journal stained
with melancholy and mustard.
Desolation and demi-tasse
are tonight’s midnight special.
Ten cents additional, if you order deluxe.
Blues in the Night.
I twiddle my thumbs
for I have no other’s to borrow.
I catch my rugged reflection
in the asylum’s window.
I espy my counterpart again
in a twisted spoon -
realizing I’m three utensils short
from a grievous quartet salted
with Mack Sennett misfits.
A collection of dishes clatter
above the sanatorium’s jukebox.
I place my spoon on the counter
and pick up a lifeless knife.
I envy its potential and possibilities
as Woody Herman croons
in the background.
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