A Man Sits in the Room – 4

A man sits in the room.

He’s still just staring at the wall. Like a rat in a cage. All he does is sleep, shit, and nibble absentmindedly at the plates we give him. He pushes that pen from page to page like they were his claws, tearing through newspaper just because, even if he doesn’t get anywhere.

But what do I know? I just bring the water and make sure his inkwell never runs dry. I ain’t like you, who waltzes in here without a care in the world, takes two looks at a sheet of numbers, and runs back to wherever it is you came from.

I yelled at him the other day just to see what would happen. It shocked him right out of his writing. He jumped with such a start that he knocked over the ink and it spread across the pages like a slow, creeping disease.

I’d apologize for ruining his notebook, but it’s not like he’d written anything important there. You might have been able to piece out three or four words in that heap of scratched out pages.

Maybe next time you’ll get him some non-spill ink or something. Go on, get out. Let me know what your seniors think about his wild antics. It isn’t like I’m going anywhere.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 4. See part 1, part 2, and part 3.

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 2

A man sits in the room.

He’s been sitting there since you left—adjusting his tie without a mirror; picking at his teeth. I added a few bags of food for him, which he perused absentmindedly for a while.

The paper is still there too. A few lines were scrawled, before he crossed them out again. You know how it is, trying to build a fortress without the proper tools. Such a shame about the wall though.

I thought I heard him get up for a moment then, but when I turned my eyes back to the window, he was still in that heavy desk chair. I wonder what he sees in the dim yellow paint. A good choice you made there.

I understand you must be off. An empty stomach is a recipe for destruction. The room will still be here tomorrow. It was nice of you to stop by though. A man is wont to hear other voices.

Don’t let him keep you. Go back to your slat roof and wooden dining table. Enjoy your four walls, and the voices that fill them. Be sure to set the plates before you pile onto the food. A man should enjoy his meals properly.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 2. See part 1 here.

 

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MUSIC SERIES – California Snow

December means the holidays are here! This poem was inspired by Let It Snow by Dean Martin.

 

California Snow

 

I pictured the first snowfall

like a Macy’s commercial

where kids could run out in knee-highs

to savor the flakes on their tongue,

 

not amidst a heavy downpour

where steel drops of rainwater

froze to hail as little knives

that cut through my black umbrella.

——

 

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Cat Paintings (and Other Haikus)

Graffiti

I can’t read the words

but in the stroke of letters

I can sense their rage.

 

Homeless Man

His fingers tremble

as he fumbles to hold on

to his cardboard sign.

 

Cassette Tape

The whirl of tape

spinning in the dusty box

brings back beginnings.

 

Interrogation

The waiter walks up

cocks his pen and his notepad.

Ready to order?

 

Cat Paintings

A rogue pair of paws

step into the batch of blue

and cross the canvas.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – At the Library

I am in the eleventh hour. The piles of papers have become mountains of material for my essay, but the words just aren’t coming to me. My eyes are getting heavy, and the yellow lights of the library flicker with fatigue. Maybe a short nap will loosen this mental knot…

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – The Jungle

This poem was inspired by My Hero, by Foo Fighters. Also, Happy Veteran’s Day everyone. Support your Vets. ❤

 

The Jungle

 

Walking down the rainy sidewalk

with a knapsack tied to a branch,

dressed in a heavy blue jacket

and a bit of distinguished scruff,

 

is how I have come to picture

the veteran on the corner

of Fifth Street and Towne Avenue

when I see him from my car door.

 

I wonder if that’s how it felt

when he trudged through the winter mud,

wrapped with the weight of his country

like a cloak to keep back the cold

 

or if he condemns the forest

of chains fenced in to keep him out;

kept the prisoner to a war

inside the concrete jungle called home.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Breathing Memory

A clean slate. A fresh breath, like spring returning after a mental hibernation. The lungs fill with a taste of mint and honey. A pause. Then the slow release; the walking fear, striding, running, sprinting. Compressed like a bag between clammy palms. All gone into the unknown. A clean slate.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Earthquake

Panic seized the trees as the rumbling started. The birds took to the skies as the mountains rained tears of rock down the sides of their faces. Even the rivers began to shiver as the banks pulled their sides apart. It seemed like all was ruined—then everything grew still.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – After Hours

Everything was blurry. It was like looking down the street through a glass of water. Each step felt like trudging through knee-deep mud, in the rain. My head was spinning, then suddenly the ground was rushing up to greet me. The darkness took me as hot blood filled my mouth.

——

 

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MUSIC SERIES – The Scarecrow

So this poem was inspired by In the Hall of the Mountain King…which I understand is a little weird, but hey, don’t question the Muse.

 

The Scarecrow

 

They pinned me on a sunny cross

like a vegetable Jesus Christ

with the same patched up purple cloak

and my own crown of prickly straw.

——

 

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