TWILIGHT IN PARIS

The CLOUD CHAMBER

08 twilight in paris - crop1

TWILIGHT IN PARIS

          By the April of this year Anno Domini 937 it has already been a long season of drought unpromising to the village of Paris.  The Seine River has disavowed the Island of the Village, which is the archaic appellation of the Île de la Cité, and now it travels furtively past in veins of sandy banks.

          Twilight has come for this day ending.  Sister Alyssa emerges from the Couvent du Vaisseau Saint convent, crossing from that tomb of angels on toward the tumult of men.  The nascent evening cooking fires are redeeming the pungent exhale of the village.  Sister Alyssa walks carefully and gently as if balancing herself traversing that village of Paris and then she passes on down toward the desolation of the Seine River.

          She touches the crucifix of lead suspended upon the hide strip around her neck.  Sister Alyssa wears the…

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MY HEART IS A HAUNTED HOUSE

The CLOUD CHAMBER

I died when you would not be mine.  Like a ghost I could no longer get a grip.  I still cannot grasp the grave space you left behind.  I hover there.
I make sounds to others until they scream.  I rot but I have not aged.  I am still seventeen when I died and did not realize it.
My soul can’t find the door out of my heart.  Won’t find.  Refuses to find.
If you curse me I could be free.
I still don’t know what I was to you.  I refuse to hear.
Loving you can not be the curse, can it?
Ghosts demand answers they cannot hear.
What is it in me that won’t let me go on?
After all this time we are strangers again from yet another life.
How could you have been such a bright light?  In my dark mansion I am still blinded.
No…

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THE REAL HOUSEFLIES OF BEVERLY HILLS

The CLOUD CHAMBER

houseflies

THE REAL HOUSEFLIES OF BEVERLY HILLS

        On the ceiling in a bathroom of the Beverly Hills mansion of Senator Abel Boozman we see three specks.  They are the houseflies Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata.

        Zena is asking, “What’s the latest buzz, girls?”

        Zoriata muses, “Why doesn’t the shit here stink?”

        Zeta preens her head, twisting it around, and says, “Where are you from?”

        Zoriata replies, “I came in off of the gardener’s truck.”

        Zena asks, “Legally?”

        Zeta scolds, “How rude!”

        Zoriata laughs in good nature and says, “That’s bien.  Laws are at the discretion of the rich.  Is the Senator going to mow three acres himself?  Or will his children?  Or will this Democrat Senator pay union wages?”

        Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata flit and buzz hysterically.  They land again upside down on the ceiling.

        Zeta strokes her wings and says, “Zoriata…

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DECEMBER IN THE RAILROAD WOODS

The CLOUD CHAMBER

December in the railroad woods the sun is bright and full of blue sky but warmth is a cold memory.
I root for myself on damp earth and I fill the barrel with water for horses.
I revolve on the damp earth that blushes with green new grass grateful for the plowing of horse hooves and the rich horse turds and the overflowing barrel of water, the hose making the same sound as a horse pissing.
I see therefore I exist among the Eucalyptus woods planted a century gone for the feeding of the iron horses, the steam railroad.
The clouds are hung over from a righteous night of  riotous rain.
I tap like rain against my iPhone.
Let this world inside outside.
My electrons howled in the Solstice of Winter, the longest night of the year, dwarfing the queen rat among the discarded couches and the soggy rugs and…

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YOUR WIFE IS HOT

The CLOUD CHAMBER

 

 wife is hot

YOUR WIFE IS HOT

        I am racing away down this highway like a meteor.  Christ, I’m doing eighty-five in this old truck.  The wind is whipping my hair into my eyes.  The hills all around me are as black as a Bible and turning slowly past me.  But the dome of this night sky scintillates without changing.

        Whoa!  A meteor!  I saw a meteor!  Wow, it just scratched across half the night sky!  I swear I could see red and yellow when it finally burst.  A meteor is just dust just rolling through this universe in solitude for a million years.  Then, by chance, it is attracted to earth where it scrapes itself into a rainbow vapor against the deceiving atmosphere.

        I call myself a writer.  If I couldn’t call myself a writer I’d have to blow my brains out.

        When I was twelve…

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