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Thursday, October 26, 2006

Black Bird Tree

Dangling from a branch by a rope of sand
Is the dancing man with the birds for hands
They squack and chirp like the kids inside
Tucked away under blankets they laugh and hide

The boards of their floors creak when it's dark
The dancing man smiles, mouth toothy, like a shark
Cloudy skies turn to mud when it leaks the rain
The bird hands are tired from the dirt rope's stain

This black tree stands strong in a field so vast
Its roots, like whale parts, grown thick to last
A body dances on every limb, swinging to and fro
And when the sky is muddy, their hands caw to the crows

-AP 10/26/06

An Ode To Old Man Flynn

Wind whispered from the window to wash back the dirty scent of gin
From the breath of the whithered lips of cranky Old Man Flynn
He laughed at the cracks in the walls every day and every night
The heavy lead curtains were taped closed to keep out the light

He would pour the warm liquor sweetly down his lanky arms
It would clean over the wounds that he got long ago on the farms
The blood, dried and crusted, remained like drugged memories
The cracks on the walls itched at him along with the fleas

At times he would laugh like a hyena being skinned alive
He would count the toes and fingers from ten down to five
The jars he kept under the bed, locked to keep out the air
Inside them, treats for The Devil with no room to spare

The wind whispered sweet Spanish songs into his swollen ears
He'd smile and hold his eyeless teddy bear to fight off the tears
Naked and bruised silly, he would stare at the wall's cracks
Hoping any minute, to pick up the scent of long lost tracks

Old Man Flynn would pace up and down the length of this big box
In his own heavenly Hell, feeling rabbid like a death hungry fox
Cutting away at his cuticles for fear of them cutting at him
Dousing his internal flames with another pint of sweet smelling gin

-AP 10/26/06

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

A Hooker Named "Blue"

There's a rat-a-tat blues jingle
That blows down the street like kitchen smoke
And she calls your name from the red room

You brush back your hair, step from the window
Her voice reminds you of last September
And you think, maybe you should call home soon

To the bed, where the neon red light is casting its color
She pats the mattress inviting you over like last Fall
And the whisper in your head makes your head swoon

Her wide eyes remind you of years gone past
The skin exposed looks like porcelain sex, illegal
Lingering in the air, sounds of a blues jingle croon

It's nights like these that turn you toward the bottle
And after the interlude finishes, so leaves this model
Left alone, under neon red, feeling more like a bafoon

With the telephone in your lap, you stare at the walls
Only seven numbers separate you and certain ghosts
And asleep you fall, humming that rat-a-tat tune

-AP 10/25/06