Seasonal

Off-springs

from fertile streams

be dammed

in Spring

when blossoms bloom,

and bestow

such a glorious

tight hold

less they are foraged,

plowed under

forgotten,

down trodden

and rotten.

­

all the worse in Autumn

when one realizes ­

that things, indeed,

do FALL.

Winds whipped

rustling fading gold,

soon rattling brown.

Some already gone barren,

now on the ground 

while others cling

to the last of the fears

letting loose of the branch

losing their dresses

their flourish, 

their grace.

A futile fight.

Now nearly nude 

while waiting

winter's blast,

their black bones

entangled

silhouetted

starkly dark

and naked

stuck in a globe

in a snowwhite

infinity

just waiting

for a shake

that's soon to come

 

 

 V

 

 

 

Work With Me

 I write this

as I have recently

done away with myself –

certain death by suicide,

utilizing a pharmaceutical I can't divulge

less some well-meaning citizen

attempts to save me

from the inevitable.

I will not be resuscitated,

as you may realize

my desire 

to terminate my existence

while waiting in the hallways 

of the Coroner's Office

should confirm.

I've taken my number,

which may not be misconstrued.

Simply hand this very letter 

to the proper authorities

so they may expedite 

my disposal.

There is no reason stated

and an explanation will not be forthcoming,

so do not spend inordinate time

pursuing a rationale.

Quick and efficient,

put me in the ground

or subject me to flame.

It makes no difference.

It's all the same. 

Let me assure you,

­I will not complain. 

 

 

 V 

Fro/z

Given a blank canvas,

there was nowhere for her to go.

So she froze

like a hose in winter.

Un – able

or un-willing...

to push it

her ice still chilling...

the potential to surpass

her preconceptions

not facing the promise

but overboard

for a false anchor

gradually sinking

she succumbed

to the mundane 

the daily 

the more common 

the slack

a racked back

she cried out

too late for

the fates 

of yesterday.

 

 

V

The Chute

There's a long dolly shot, shot down a long sooty hallway - low angle, smooth, steady, purposeful. It is a skateboard shot.

A door opens, the dolly stops in a clumsy style. 

A pair of bare feminine legs sweeps past cam. - the scene is wiped by the 'white trash bag' she totes - swish...

Reverse shot as she walks bare-ass by, bearing bag back down the hall in the direction from which he had just come. 

She stops halfway, just long enough to drop the trash bag down the chute. 

And returns.

She is unperturbed by her skimpy attire, sweeps briskly past cam. to the security of her doorway.

     

    Flips cam. 'the Finger' ... then SLAMS! the door.

 

He realized he had been holding his breath the whole time.  

     I mean...How hot can you get?

 

He stumbled there near the floor, groping for the wall, his arm buckling, folding hard head-first into the old brick masonry. He lay for a time before 'the faint' passed, and as he wobbled to reality he wiped the sweat, and a little blood, from his brow, breathed deep and sat upright but woozy for a while.

While chewing on ginger and jerky from a hip bag, along with coffee in a thermal cup clipped to his belt, he navigated the streets/rooftops/alleys/hallways/doorways, and private quarters ...his camera in hand. Imagined himself a ghost. 

Only problem was, they could see him. 

 

His business card read  "Cocked and Ready" 

No shit.

So it was this worm was collared as he relieved himself in an alleyway, pissing as a patrol car passed by, and directing into it's spotlight, 

Caught him dangling his dingle?

Precisely. 

Never assume you're a ghost. 

Lesson learned.

 

 

V

Very Punctual

They had written the obligatory obituary. It was short. A five minute phone call with an unidentified family member, who was, at first, very reluctant to speak to a junior level representative from the newspaper. They answered a few questions, the basic facts, no more than a few sentences long. The entire 'interview' took no longer than five minutes, and ended with “...he was a good worker...very punctual”.

That was the best they could offer. When asked if they could expand and ask a few more questions, the family member hung up. Such was the man's legacy. The burial was not well attended, as was expected, since the word did not go out regarding the event or it's timing which was vague and much too late for the eight or so may otherwise attend. It was more a function of expediency for the undertaker, but at a bargain's rate, who's to complain?

Clara tipped and sipped the milk from a cracked bowl of cereal, slurping the last of it down, but saving enough fluid to allow the crack, one last tear...to drop. It was among the few remaining items she'd encounter, with a quick thrashing through the fridge...the cabinets – the last thing edible, and once it was gone she opted to trash the meager remainder rather than pack it. The cabinets were void, almost empty with only two boxes 'todo' goods worth salvaging, and that includes 'the wormy ones' which she'd “donate to a good cause”. ­

She was at once saddened that these two meager boxes accounted for the man's existence, but relieved, in truth, it was all she could deal with and it would take too much of her time because at the time, she had much more immediate things to deal with.

The funeral? It was a most minimal farewell sparsely attended. No one but her to mind his business, pay the preacher from a meager draw, but she expedited the ceremony in under a half hour and received her discount. It mattered.

 

 

V

something seeping

 

 

Finding sanity 

while lodged in the sameness 

of the mundane 

except for the burst of pain 

with its white hot flame 

that rips 

through the body 

scot-free

then she flees to the city

like a mean dog running

angry and off-lead 

 

run bitch run bitch run 

 

just leave me on my knees 

pleading for relief 

but release is in the dying 

and dying is in the bleeding

...me?

just ‘be’

keep my mind 

functional and free

focus on time 

before the clock stops

by god...

some ooze goin' on  

seeping out the hole she poked

some bloke bled out

but this time 

it appears 

it's me

wait...

she stole my car 

while committing this crime

driving wild

can't be hard to find

it’s a Fo...oh!

...forget it...

 

the curtain draws

the usher, 

the lights

no sense lingering

no postponing

no atoning

this show passes

another closing

another night

 

V

Peete's Gate

Polly met the parson at the end of the paved road near the blue-gated entrance to the Peete estate. Although both were looking forward to the opportunity, but they found that that afternoon’s surprising weather was less than welcoming, and growing to be less hospitable with each passing minute. Disappointed as they found themselves, but reveling in the spontaneity of the moment, they eagerly agreed to meet again, perhaps after services and somewhere more secluded allowing for a more private conversation. The parson, being respectful of his own wife’s passing, had waited a full year before venturing forth gingerly into the realm of relationships. Drenched by now, they each scurried off in opposite directions, laughing and yelling “Run!”

But it was anticipation that ran high at the blue gate that day.

V