The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
Misshapen Characters
They stood overlooking us like monuments
Carved wrong, titles raised, Integrity cropped
Down to a particle.
Their shoulders were uneven- One Organized
With authority, The other clamorous where
Empathy be required to have lived. They
Walked through corridors that extended
To fit their swollen names, each plaque
Polished more glaring then the truth on
The other side of it. Their decisions fell
From great heights, heavy as stone,
Landing hardest on the ones who never
Learned to cite loud enough to be heard
Spiraling.
They measured us with rulers arched by
Bias, weighed us on measure titled by
Convenience, and called the imbalance
System methodology. Their power grew
Disproportionate, A skyscraper built on
Crooked joists. Inclination further each
Year toward self-interest away from the
People holding up the cornerstone with
Tired hands.
Yet even Misshapen Characters cast dimness
And our began to rise, expansion long across
The ground, evoking them that height is not
The same as honor, and soaring is not the
Same as standing tall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
Powerful forces reign over our world
some forces are evil, but some good
they have a power beyond our lives
if you could strip them bare as nude
Then maybe their power would defuse
but here you have wind and rain
two great forces, when combined so lethal
that they cause trouble to leave a stain
Last evening, lying sleepless until early morn
these two were shouting in full voice
makes one ponder to think so vivid
can cause much damage, like broken joists
In the small hours, listening so clearly
within the whistling wind in tune
joining rain's wetness running down outside
devastation ruling brings so much ruin
These powerful forces are beyond us
reigning outwith our feeble frames
be sure never to forget their venom
catching like wildfire into full flames
We’re taking down an old and rotting barn;
perhaps “garage” might be a better term.
Blue metal siding, faded long ago,
has not come easy; this I can confirm.
The timbers, cut when measurements were real,
provide a clue to estimates of age.
The wood is likely oak, extremely rough;
the cost in today’s terms is hard to gauge.
Another building will replace this one;
I’m not sure it will stand the test of time,
but this one’s days are definitely done.
I would replace it too, if it were mine.
The metal roof came off, all rusted out;
The joists and rafters, all that now remain.
I’ll hit it hard tomorrow with no doubt
the effort will be worth the aches and pains.
A spark erupts, setting alight a formidable flame.
Casting ascending vivid flickers of amber gleaming.
Ignited fervor, unbeknownst from whence it came.
The ominous blaze glares through the windows beaming.
A thunderous crackle incites a violent burn.
Engaged by inferno, timber joists integrity weakens.
As smoke engulfs the structural core in turn.
Roaring fevered holocaust ensues the blight it beacons.
Heroic sirens wail in desperation, hastily traversing town.
To cease the fiery devastation, cast upon the vastly disintegrating abode.
With forceful halt upon arrival, a bursting hose aimed toward the chateau's fallen crown.
Blasts of saturation work to snuff the flames encapsulating trusses, frame, and lode.
Now left with smoldering embers, a result of amnesic mistake.
A forgotten glowing candle, leaving destruction in its wake.
From a distance,
the incessant chant of monsoon from south west,
sounds like an old witch practicing her craft,
Turning the sleeping dark cloud to a wandering gale,
On its arrival must the sun lose its seeming joy,
As she roars as a warrior in great toil,
And the blue sky covers it face with dark veil,
To hide from the shame of its impending tears,
The sparkling effect of the raging charges,
Brings a fearful sight of great lightening,
A wonder of the mighty mother nature,
Throwing a tantrum to some of its weak creatures,
As the sky's long-held tears begin to flow,
The earth has no option than to open wide her mouth,
As seedlings prepare their minds to grow,
And plants celebrate the cold shower as they sprout,
The temperature drops in honor of the great monsoon,
The cold air spews through the joists of the poor as it blows,
The sheltered rich rejoice in sleeping comfort,
Yet it means a great mare to the homeless vagabonds,
The incessant chant of monsoon from the South West,
The witchcraft of good and evil to the biosphere,
A sign of hope for the long waited winter,
But painful end to the summer's joy
No the world is not for me.
it's for suburban hitlers
who indulge in protocol wars
and middle class wives
in camaro jeeps.
No the world is not for me
but for trendy young things
and stylish hipsters.
it's for politicians,
who will caress your prejudices into a vote.
or for doctors with dollar sign ethics
and wallet surgeons who sign insurance plans.
or those sad soldiers that fall to their knees before a flag,
who believe killing strangers abroad will set us free.
No the world is not for me.
who shouldn't be let near paper or pen,
not with these grubby hands
and beerbelly eyes.
that spend their days
laying cement and nailing joists
and trying to quench an unstoppable thirst.
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