Friday, January 28, 2011

Sabrina love

love, wide-eyed doe
Bogart warns tender Audrey,

Thursday, January 27, 2011

short trip home

2092.4.22. :

I distinctly remember landing the Vagabond II in a soft white *poof,* kicking up very little dust. One of the sweetest three-point landings I ever made - right down the glide slope. The main engine left the tiniest of scorch marks. When the dust settled, the first thing I recall seeing was the crimson colored trees. I thought we were home at last. I honestly thought it was Earth. I looked over and could tell Mooney was dead. Maybe the excitement - his heart, you know. Or maybe it was the out-of-date beef jerky - that'll do anyone in. Me, I stuck with the dried fruit - one gets hooked on apricots.

It seemed the proper thing to do, to bury him - there - amongst the crimson landscape. He grew up in the country; Ohio, I believe. Buckeye. I carried him, stopping in intervals to scoop arrows in the snow with my foot to find my way back in those blinding white-outs. Wore out my shoe fast. Snow dust like sandpaper. That's why I wrapped it in duct tape. You know, duct tape works - I used it to re-enforce the crumbling heat shield. No, really, I did, it works. But the marks disappeared in the howling wind, and I had to dodge the fallen frozen tree limbs that would catch a ride in the violent crosswind and become flying daggers. For the first time the whole mission - I was scared. One pierced him in the heart, but he was long gone by then. So, I guess it didn't matter. I placed Mooney's helmet, gloves, and his beloved white bible against an ancient tree stump to mark his final home.

I was exhausted long before I found my way back. I guess I must've passed out, I don't remember. I awakened when the wind stopped and all was silent. Isn't that funny - awakening by silence? Or maybe it was the loneliness. Then I saw that bone-chilling strip of duct tape with the arrow cut-out plastered on the port hole window and I lost all my apricots.

Friday, January 21, 2011

quiet please

Abolishing War
(it's never checked out it seems)
try non-fiction stack

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

the white hat

She had soft curls. I wanted to touch her, but her two nosy sisters were nearby, and I know it embarrassed her; she blushed easy in her paleness. So, I strummed her chestnut hair with my fingers in fleeting moments when we were alone alas. She said don't, but the giggle said yes.
The white winter hat fell to the frozen pond when I had my hand around her small waist with her small hot hand in mine as we waltzed on ice. The chastising sisters called her name angrily when they spotted us from their perch on shore, and it echoed throughout the brilliant white misty landscape like timber cracking and snapping limbs overburdened from an ice storm - that sound of pure death a fallen tree makes in the forest when no one is around.
I never believed her name was meant to sound as such. It was more suited for the gentle flow of clear water caressing pebbles in a shallow spring brook. We stood still listening as the echo faded. She was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed, we smiled. I placed the hat, or I should say, positioned the hat carefully, tilted slightly north by northwest, her face forever kept from shadow, and when I looked at her again she was crying. She placed her small warm hands on my face, bending me down to a welcomed first kiss.

Friday, January 14, 2011

waiting for the subway

yearning for summer
girl upstairs, white blossom dress
cue the luscious breeze

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

the city never sleeps

A second chair trumpeter, late for a seventy-five greenbacks 'til four in the morning Woodchopper's Ball, in full tux with loosened bow tie resembling a new year's eve streamer, is frantic at The Arno's Hardware Store aisle of toilet plungers, unscrewing wooden handles, looking for a perfect fitted mute, trying to find the best muffled sound with short two-note toots that draws that musical finesse demanding hardware crowd of curious on lookers, and finally satisfied, breezes past a part-time checkout girl wearing a plastic name tag of 'Bud' pinned above her left breast, lost in dreams of a capella days, forgetting to pay, out into the cold night with a self-satisfied wah-waaaaah! echoing all the way to the illuminated dance hall...

Arrested: misdemeanor shoplifting.
Perplexed mugshot, with elegant bow tie.

Friday, January 7, 2011

the fall

weightless red wings soared
a thousand sacred rhythms
death by shattered skies

Tuesday, January 4, 2011


There's a renaissance lass name o' Tess
Poet, Cook, Bloggy-friend: the Best.
She cues my Magpie tales
like serendipitous gifts found in the mail
It arrived! Henry Moore's vagabond's jest!

Saturday, January 1, 2011

new year haiku

the year of the dove
incandescent path to peace:
twenty eleven
11,041 vagabonds plus:
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