The night rested in a humid Spring night as the cable cars
And taxi cabs lazily made their way around the
Soft and silent streets of the city. Stray cats and dogs
Picked away at half-eaten lunch meat and
three day old bread as the moon slowly began to rise.
The restaurants that lined the alley ways and
Side streets were filled with the Saturday evening crowd. The
Clinking echoes of wine glasses and dinner plates spilled
Out onto the sidewalk and into the street. The passerby's would
Occasionally turn their heads to look inside, some envious that they
Were not smiling and drinking and eating that night. Across the
Street and throughout the town, lonely men drank from half empty
Beer mugs, wondering where their passion had gone.

On the corner of Barry and 3rd stood a man alone with
A suitcase in his hand. He wore tattered brown dress
Shoes - two years too old - a black neck tie with a half
Button-up T-shirt and a pair of dark brown slacks he had
Bought from Goodwill for $3. His free hand hung open,
Letting the night breeze snake around his fingers. There
Were the stars above him that shone down onto the street
And the sidewalk and a few spotted puddles that had
Built up from an earlier rain. On the corner of Barry and 3rd
There was only one thing to do with one's time, and that
Was to stand around and think of where to go to next.

Up on 17th, there was a bar the man had heard of
From a woman who had tried to pick him up at the bus
Station, some kind of ******* that was really only looking
For a couple of free drinks and a packet of cigarettes. The man
Thought of this place, and weighed back and forth if it would
Be advantageous to wander up there and see if he couldn't
Find someone to shack up with for the night.
He decided it would be.

As he passed the busy restaurants, listening to the insides
Of the building and its occupants churn like silverware
In a blender, he remembered he had placed a half-loaf
Of bread inside of his suitcase.
He stopped on a rough concrete stoop of a Catholic
Church, where above him, stood a large wooden cross.
Around the cross were plaster sculptures of baby angels and
Gargoyles and a snaking vine made of black stone that made
Its way around the cross, tying itself around the center
Where the horizontal met the vertical, and continued
To spin around and around until it reached the top.
At first, the man thought it was some
Kind of snake signifying Adam and Eve, which was all
He really knew about religion, the basic kid stories, but
When looking closer, realized that it was only an innocent
Plant seeking a spot of sun.

The man placed his suitcase on the 3rd step of 8, where he
Then sat on the 4th. He leaned his weathered, bent back against
The hard stone concrete and listened to the faint cracks
Of his spine inside his body. He realized that he hadn't sat d
Down and relaxed since he had gotten off the train. He threw
His head back in a exaggerated and child-like yawn, and felt the warm tears
Of bashful exhaustion fill the sockets of his heavy eyes. The night was
Warm and he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt
To let the air blow over his sweat drenched chest.

"There are certain times to be alone in life," He mused
To himself, "And I do believe that I have
Found one of them."

In a room above him the window was wide open
And the curtains danced outside with the wind. A head
Poked out from the window sill and peered down to
Look at the man musing, but did not say anything. The man
knew nothing of the stranger's eyes above him and felt
No other presence around him, other than the passing taxi
Cabs and street walker's and - if you counted the one's inside
The church - the saints and the angel's and God that lived
In holy silence enshrined behind him.

"There are things in life that are never meant to be
Solved," he philosophized, "And maybe I am
One of those things. When I think of my life, my entire
Life here on Earth, I don't think I ever found
A straight line to follow that I was ever comfortable
With...not one straight line I could follow that would
Bring me true happiness or a sense of accomplishment.
Now, am I bad in feeling this way? Am I no good
For never feeling that the good ain't ever good enough?
I do my laundry like everybody else and I walk the
Street just the same, but, there is something else that
Smells and feels and can taste the eternity in all things
That makes me restless so I can't sleep sometimes, forces
Me to stare into black infinity with only a mind I feel
That I will never truly meet. There has got to be a word
For whatever feeling this is, but I can't seem to think of it now."

The head above that had poked out before ******
A dark object out the window. It wavered for a moment
In the still warm air of the night, then, whooshing and
Splashing down, a full bucket of water cascaded down
on the man's head and suitcase. The man sat frozen, unsure
Whether it was from the Heaven's itself and paused before
He began to swear and curse at the tenant above him.

"You rat **** eating vanilla ice cream eating convict!" he
Screamed up towards the apartment complex, "I'm going
To come back with a gallon of gasoline, 10,000 tooth-picks, and
Find out your favorite magazine subscription and bring 1,000
Those by, and burn this place down - gifts and all!"

His voice
Echoed in the street
And down the darkened alley-way,
Where the bums of the city
Slumbered, not hearing a sound
Of the rant the man in the now wet
Two year old dress shoes rambled
On with; for bums sleep with
Absolute peace with their lack of
Care or fear of time.

"At last," he muttered underneath his dripping hair,
"I am released unto the Earth for what I truly am: A hung
Sheet - fresh out of the washer - meant only to be
Basking in the moonlight so to be dried by
Morning for the house-guests in the evening."

The man snapped his fingers,
Clicked his tongue, and looked up,
Once more trying to spot the culprit, until
Another bucket of water came crashing
Down upon him.

"QUIET DOWN THERE,"
The voice from above hollered,
"THERE AIN'T A SINGLE WORD ANYONE
IN THIS BUILDING WANTS TO HEAR
RIGHT NOW! CHILDREN ARE SLEEPING AND
THE OLD ONE'S ARE WATCHING THIER PROGRAMS!"

The man ran his hands through his dripping wet hair
And flicked the droplets of water out onto the street. His
Suitcase, which sat to the right of him, was soaked as well and
The man worried about the single baguette he had stored
In there in case he had gotten hungry. He knew it was ruined
Now, but was happy that there was only an extra pair
Of 50 cent socks and an undershirt he had found underneath
A bridge on the way into the city. He cocked his head up to the open window.

"You speak for everyone here in this building?" He
Asked the black and blotchy figure above him.

"I speak for everyone that doesn't have the nerve or
The cajones or the energy to holler down at you at
This Un-Godly hour, if that's what your asking."

"They vote you into that position?" He asked, prodding them.

"No vote. I'm a volunteer," they defended.

"Ha. Always going to be some kind of
Volunteer when there's power involved."

"Isn't power, it's responsibility."

"Responsibility," the man repeated, chewing the
Word in his mouth, seeing it spelled out in his mind.
"Responsibility is quite a subjective thing: some people
Take a liking to it and never want to stop being responsible and
In charge, and some just don't want none of it and
Would rather lay back in the sun and act
Like their in charge, while whoever believes
Their power works under'em and for'em; which one are you?"

"Neither. I'm just here trying to ward off some
Rambling *** with what looks like nothing but a
Suitcase and some old clothes and shoes."

"Well," he said, "You must have some pretty good
Eye-sight in this setting dark, because that's
All I got at the moment."

"Where you hail from?" the voice asked.

"Originally I hail from here, but where I was
Before I hailed from as well. To tell you the truth, I don't
Truly know - that's a good question."

The man tilted his chin up slightly and
Rolled over his response. The question had
Dropped an icy fire into the pit of his stomach and filled it
With hundreds of gnawing, fluttering butterflies; he
Hadn't thought about home in a long time and
Had forgotten why he had even chose to show-up in the first place.

"I'm here for reasons I can't seem to remember at the moment,"
The man admitted to the voice above and to himself.

"Can't remember?" the voice laughed, "How
You gonna' forget why you came home?"

"Don't know," he said, shaking his head," Just
Can't seem to recollect it."

"Scary thing."

"Yes, indeed."

They both paused as a taxi cab passed slowly by. It stopped
And honked its horn trying to signal the man to see
If he needed a ride. The man waved his hand to send the
Cabby off and looked down at his wet clothes and suitcase. The
Chill of the night had gotten its way into his skin and
He noticed that his teeth were chattering and his feet were
Beginning to shake. He worried about getting sick because he
Wouldn't be able to buy any medicine if he did. He looked up
To see the figure still looking down at him in silence. Suddenly,
An object fell, back and forth in the air like a feather,
Down towards the man and onto the stoop where he stood.
It was a blanket and wrapped inside was a tattered pillow.

"Bring it back if you want," the voice called out to him, "Don't
Even care if you sleep on the stoop, but, it's a little wet, as you know."

"There a park around here?"

"Down two blocks and a left. You'll see it."

"Thanks for your kindness," he said looking up at the window.

"Thanks for your silence," the voice said stubbornly.

The man brushed off the remaining water on his clothes
And suitcase and tried to squeeze the water out his hair.
He picked up his suitcase and wrapped the blanket around
His body and fitted the pillow underneath his arm. He walked
Two blocks up from where the figure had told him and took a
Left, illuminated by the stark orange and white street lights. He looked
Around after he took the left and spotted a small children's park
With a few benches spotted along the sidewalk that snaked through it.
He picked a bench near a water fountain, unbuckled his belt and took
Off his wet pants and laid down, wrapping the thick wool blanket
Around his body. He placed his suitcase underneath the bench and
Positioned the pillow so it fitted gently under his head. After he
Closed his eyes and rested for five minutes, he reached down to
Touch his suitcase. He felt the cool, damp leather of it, and
Quickly wrapped himself back up into the blanket,
Eagerly awaiting for dawn to rise and bring warmth back to his body.

At dawn, the sun painted the man's body with dark yellow streaks
of sunlight, heating his body up so much that when he woke, his
Clothes were close to dry again. The small patch of grass and
Weeds underneath him rustled with the wind and the sounds
Of the street a few blocks away drifted into his ear. He stirred
Inside of his blanket but did not rise. The pillow had fallen
To the ground throughout the night, but the man was too tired
To reach for it and kept his head on the hard wooden surface of the bench.
While lying there, half awake, the man thought of the figure that
Had been speaking to him from their window the night before. He
Knew he must return the blanket and pillow, but he was unsure
Whether he should bring something else. He had no money -
No money to spare at least - so he chose to bring only the
The things that were leant to him back, hoping that would suffice.

He shifted his position on the bench and saw through a crack of
The bench, that there were children already playing on the playground
Behind him, their parents leaning over their porches watching them; they
Didn't even seem to notice or care about the man sleeping on the bench.
The man felt embarrassed about this and rolled over to avoid the
Gaze of the parents and any of the children that may have spotted him. He
Laid on his back, his head atop the worn but comfortable pillow, and
Gazed up into the blue sky that was clear save a few passing milky
White clouds, that hovered above him like colossal globs of marshmallows.
He hoped in his mind that he remembered where the house the was that
Had been kind enough to give him the blanket and pillow and he wished
That he had paid more attention to the street signs and physical objects
Surrounding the building. All the man could recall were the bright neon
Orange light posts, a long line of thinly pruned circular bushes, a few
Mailboxes that stood as if attention on the sidewalk of the street, and
Numerous houses that all looked the same when he passed them in the night.
He knew he needed to find the house but was too comfortable to rise and
Too scared of the failure of ever finding the house and the thought
Of carrying around the blanket and pillow made his face flush a deep red.

The man rose cooly, as if rising from a nap spent on a couch in his
Summer cottage that rested on the bank of some far off river somewhere.
He looked over to the children and the parents up on their porches, but
Still, none of them paid him any mind. This relieved him. He was allowed
To be a shadow and embraced the idea of being anonymous rather
Than feeling the helplessness one feels when no one sees you. He folded
The blanket neatly like his mother had taught him to do ever since
He was a little boy, and instinctively fluffed the ***** pillow, even though
It was far beyond repair already. The sun was just peaking over the tops of
The ramshackle apartment buildings and he noticed that he had been
Sleeping in what looked like a very poor part of town; in the night, it
Looked like every other park corner where the elderly would to
Think about their past and the children would play with their present.

"Night and day are two different worlds," the man muttered
To himself, "Some people belong in one and some
The other; I wonder...which one am I?"

He looked up towards the sun and squinted, feeling a
Small droplet of sweat make its way down his right cheek. He
Wiped it away with his fingertip and brought it to his mouth -
He was terribly thirsty and his stomach rumbled within him. He
Had noticed the night before on the way to the park, a sign
For a bakery, but was not sure whether it was open or not because
The night was too dark to reveal any signs of it. The man had 10 dollars to
His name and knew he could buy two loaves of bread for at least 50 cents
If he haggled with whoever was running the place. They would be sure
To see his condition and help him if he showed them a little of the money he had.
There was also a childish charm to the man that he would bring out whenever
He truly was in need - he never liked abusing this gift, if one could call it that -
But in times of desperation and starvation and dehydration, he was
Forced to use it and mustered as much courage up to do so.

He walked through the path that had brought him to the park and
Made a right down the street towards the bakery and possibly the
House where he had been given the blanket and pillow. There was
No one on the street save a few alley cats and dogs and all the window
Blinds were down to block out the intense shining sun rising in the sky. There
Was a light breeze passing through the trees that cooled the man off. He
Had begun to sweat from holding the pillow and blanket so close
To his body, and wished he could have the nerve just to throw it in a
Garbage can and make his way to the neighborhood where he had been told
About the bar, but his conscious weighed him down, so he carried on.

He walked a block down the street and found the bakery on the other side
Of the street. He crossed and saw there was an old woman inside.
He checked his pockets for any spare change and opened his wallet
To make sure the 10 dollars was still there. He needed water and something
To put in his belly and he whispered a prayer before he went inside of the bakery.
When he pushed the door to enter though, it wouldn't budge - it was locked. The
Woman behind the counter turned her head and looked at the man, who
shook her head and waved him off. The man knocked gently on the glass
Door, but the old woman just kept waving and shooing him off like an animal. The
Man checked the clock inside and saw that

once in my sanctuary
it came in a loud gallop
followed by a wallop
my sorrowful lumbar
detaching the fear
of a clumsy blunder

shifted away from
the law of physics  
an emptied vessel unmoved
like a sealed vacuum
certain a final curtain
pin drop in code of silence

light time alliances
whooshing me into
ethereal plains
a sublime hemisphere
of infinitesimal space, time
an indescribable beyond

gentle breezes
feathery light teases
soon a star-gazing eyes
darted through a
zero gravity galaxy of an
endless empyrean expanse

a’turnin spherical sight
orange white stripes
rosely red spot
churning roiling clouds
speckled dusty rings
what beauteous it shrouds

why am I here
a knowing voice appeared
melodically close but I
can only behold afar
of an ethereally existential
interstellar manifold

questioning mind
told of convoluted ways
as seen and heard
the rhymes and seasons but
for one and the only reason
mankind's whisper'd words

entrance to the portal
as did my dawned immortal  
met a peaceful assembly
I lay in days, this rapturous gifts
what divine effulgence of
a truly cosmic lift

Wanton winds whip
Westerly while whooshing wildly
Wicked witch weather

The Children watched in playful awe at the man with the gentle eyes and the fungous feet...
"Jump!! Jump! Jump!!" their tiny voices squeaked.
Some raced around its trunk-- others sat upon its roots, but all of them beamed with glee,
at the man perched atop The Wondrous Tree.
"Today is but a dream to yesterday's fragile memory" his gentle eyes wished they could say.
Instead, they filled with longing tears, at the meaning of the day.

From this height their giggles were but the chorus to the wind's sweet melody.
Their pitter-patter-- gentle chatter-- in the heart of The Wondrous Tree.
The familiar pungent scent and bitter taste that rose,
From the custard yellow toe-nails up to his leaky nose,
Was nothing new, but something old, like a fable long foretold.
He didn't mind it, he quite liked it; after all he could not fight it.
They were his since age six, not a problem for anyone to fix.

But it was he that had a plan,
To be fulfilled when child, became man.

Long he listened, as a boy, to the tortured cries of Men of Age,
Who said that earth and Life was nothing but a stage.
"This pain, this torture, this life-- I cannot wait to pass.
This body's fat, this skin is lax-- in death I shall be free at last!"
And yet the boy, with fungous feet but gentle eyes,
Always knew that 'neath every surface, something Wondrous lies.
Within his mangled feet something struggled too for Life.

So, he paid no mind to those who had none,
And in his hand, his one true plan,
A great big seed of a rare sweet Plum.

"This lovely seed shall be my stage, when I am of the older Age.
And to those that doubt, and mope about, shall I free them from their Whining Cage.
For the greatest gift is Life, filled with love and plenty of Strife.
Life is given, not sustained, and without struggle nothing's gained.
We have always been around, from rocks to monkeys to people; we've all come from the ground.
And there we'll go without a peep, to that restful slumber, back to sleep.
So while you're here, shed many a tear for those that never were.
Then share a smile, for a longer while, and enjoy this whooshing blur"
Then, the boy, gave the future tree a quick quiet gentle lick
And ran toward the sunset, never feeling ill or sick.
Upon a hill he planted the sweetest Plum's seed.

In time, he loved, he married, his pain only he did carry,
On the feet the fungus feed.

But never did his eyes grow cold or distant, not even for an instant.
Nor even when his Lover‘s eyes, sickened, flickered their goodbye.
“No need for hurt or greed. Why try to say goodbye? Why?
When we all know, ‘neath every surface something Living Lie”
So when regret and sorrow would make his body ill,
His mind and soul would soar, to that Miraculous Hill.

Now the boy, dressed as Man, was inches from his youthful plan;
While the seed, now a tree, was eager for its final act.
“It is true the world’s a stage, and we its only builder—
Not a Buddha, not a Krishna, not a Priest or Holy Sister.
Let it rain without strain the sweetest Plum-- your only fruit--
From the highest fragile leaf, to your strongest hidden root.
So give and take, and Live and die,
For where there is death neath its surface there is Life”
He closed his gentle eyes, and rubbed his itchy feet,
But instead of jumping, smiling he did leap.
In his final breath, not a word of this did he speak,
Because as we roam, together or alone,
It is a discovery worthy of your seek.

The kids below played a funny game of duck-duck goose,
As the man’s purple bloated neck swayed tightly on the noose.
And Plums did rain, And Life did remain and death a whisper on the plain.
The groundless feet ****** and pranced, a short and happy little dance.
And the ducks and the goose, excitedly let loose-- faces slobbered in Plum juice;
Allowing death not a jealous wink or a pained side-glance.

A shooting star goes whooshing by
Across the darkness of the sky
As if to send a sparkling sign
In the shape of a bright light
A sign to those who look up at night
To tell them they will be alright
A sign to give a sense to them
That all will be right again
The world will make sense soon
As sure as there will be a moon
So if you happen to see this star
Remember that from afar
There is a star that is shining bright
Waiting to tell you that all is right

My dreams are all seeing
They are not blinded by insecurity
Dream land is free omnipotent
I can see everything
No constraints of consciousness
No walls built around dreams
Anything can be seen
You are above life looking down
Watching scenes unfold as they do
Good, bad, ugly, it's irrelevant
We can see the past, present, and future
My dreams are all seeing and wise
They are in tune with the universe
The celestial ebb and flow of life
Like the current of a flowing river
A flock of birds that fly in unison
My brain waves flow in dreams
Whooshing past my being and stop
Stop ad listen to the present
The all consuming dream state
My dreams have no constraints
My dreams are all seeing

Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt
Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk
Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch
As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch

The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets
And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes
A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound
When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground

She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes
And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose
She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell
Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell

The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath
The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death
The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape
And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake

The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill
Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still
A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned
Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end

As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold
The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold
Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled
They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled

Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance
With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance
Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen
And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene

They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night
The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light
The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye
And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky

On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung
And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong

The ride up there was worth a stare
from my train window
Greens and golds and purple glows
whooshing to and fro.

~~~

for S.

~~~


six months, two seasons later,
summer poet,  
now a transpositioning,
chilled, blustered & wind blistered,
winter observer,
arm chair couching,
poetry compositioning,
beneath a cashmere blanket of
the lush quietude of an early
Saturday morning
in the city of eight sleeping
millions

you, poet,
stumble upon yourself,
thumbing upon prior dusty
man-you-tell-all
man-you-scripts,#
recalling the where and the when
of an old ecrire composed,
all the while,
the whole world-arounding,
rests, theater-encased,
in the early morn
sound-surrounding
of

true quiet,

for there is nary a visible
source of sound
in this old citified heart &
house

but

true quiet is not the absence of noise

heat-felt fires on a wintered January dawning,
in a silence noisy,
emotionally reverberate,
wild spreading from icy toes, to red nosey,
heck, the body entire,
quiet sweet jam filling,
with the silent crackling fires
of the metaphors of
love

the mind reversely calmed by
fevered puzzlement
mystified by the mystery,
simplistically complex,
how his soul got married
in manner beyond extra-legal,
an internet irregular,
superseding the less-than-the-so-superior,
superior courts of regulatory
administration

to another
currently sleeping, resting only,
a Fitbit confirmed,
thirty nine steps
away,
but a lifetime needed,
to be taken to her,
hidden in a but-a-block-away location,
to find and keep
nearer

in a way, a way,
discovering Columbus-you,
a cacophony of silent metaphors,
waxing, ruminating,
upon the detailing
of a strange and straining
voyage
to this no longer remote,
undisguised visionary land of
love

in the summer the insects battled,
who could chirp most vociferously,
under the trees of competive birds,
mostly mocking the tiny creatures efforts

while the summer ease breeze called out,
in tunes soul-refreshing,
and you were then
quieted
in remote places,
in remote places within
where calm,
rarely claimed knowledge or
kinship

in the city, with sky undecided,
night to flee, day to welcome,
the streetlights flicker in a muted code,
cold air shakes the street signs to and fro
diligently, silently, working
while its underling humans,
all still noisly
dreaming

the racketing pounding of
a love poem escaping,
the whooshing breaths,
all capitulate to the supremacy of a
new testament definitional

true quiet

is reinterpreted,
better understood,
it is a locale precise, a
terminus finale
where calm intersects, perfects, blends,
with a certain warming temperature,
both being,
natural noise suppressers,
both beings,
a combination reflection,
viable only in a
singular coupling

the ending
reached,
a realization
breached,
true quiet comes best
in pairs,
when the heart and mind are
synchronized with
another's