Unemployment Be Damned
Current mood: weird
Category: Writing and Poetry

Unemployment be Damned

Thursday
at around 9 am
the Bakersfield unemployment office had
a rather
unexpected guest,
though he should probably be termed
prospective applicant
he came
as a supplicant
soliciitng benefits.

He was in hope of a check.

This gentleman came in
immaculately garbed,
with the grace of a star
certain
of the drape of his linen,
but bearing
a most curious scent.

His wake
bore the scent of brimstone,
seemingly trailing sulfur
this smell was noticeable
as was
the reddish tint of his eyes.
Still
his bearing was elegant
everyone present
followed his progress,
they noted his stride.

On his application
his name was listed
as Sammael Morningstar.
Under previous occupation
appeared the word recruiter,
and though there was some dispute
as to the specifics,
though the gentleman
was clearly quite gifted,
there was
no longer
much demand for his services,
so here he was
arriving promptly at nine.

People it seemed
no longer needed
very much inducement.
Business at his former office
was brisk,
in fact booming,
but there wasn't very much need
for any kind of recruitment,
so here he was
on the unemployment line.

Unemployment be damned.

2008 Via Peccadi

10:47 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

solace (raise the glass)
Current mood: blah
Category: Writing and Poetry

Solace

The surface was of beaten copper,
tarnished green about the edges,
and above it
the air
remained stagnant
variously scented,
by spilled,
long since fermented
barley, hops, and malt.

People huddled here.
Some reclined.
Whether silent,
or engaged in conversation
everyone took comfort
from the setting
not just from the fruit
of field and vine.

This...
...was a hallowed place,
a sacred spot
for taking one’s communion,
and claiming solace.
This was no barroom,
for some
it remained
a revelation,
a reminder
of transcendence,
a soothing comfort
for what’s lost.

2008 Via Peccadi

7:08 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

the week after
Current mood: sleepy
Category: Writing and Poetry

The Week After

The week after the election was chaotic.
The results had been disputed.
Many among the opposition
suspected
that returns had been rigged.
Their supporters
voiced their displeasure
in the streets
with machetes and clubs
amidst the acrid black smoke
of burning tires.

Of course there was blood.
Estimates indicated
that 1000 had died.
In the countryside,
mobilizations suggested
the hardening
of a guerilla insurrection.
Still diplomats hoped
for nonviolent pacification
of a hardening discontent
rooted in the certainty
that the people had been cheated.

Of course there was blood.
There always had been,
in the decades following
the decay
of the great colonial powers.

There was no freedom here.
Or rather there was,
but it was muted
by the certainty of
electoral exploitation,
those same machetes,
and the accumulation
of frustrated expectations,

and the avenues remained empty.
For now,
everyone
seemed to hold their breath.
In the market
the vendor's stalls
stood vacant.
There was no commerce,
but there was charred
human flesh,
in town and country
in the week after the election.

2008 Via Peccadi

6:47 AM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Martin Jacoby
Current mood: catalyzed
Category: Writing and Poetry

Martin Jacoby

Martin Jacoby sat
beneath an avenue of glass
that pushed its way skyward
somewhere in Midtown.

His thoughts were elsewhere.
It was 4:45 on a Friday.

Mr. Jacoby
was well into his middle-age,
his burning dreams muted
by his lengthening days,
his fiery speech,
long since turned
a charcoal gray
that matched the wiry hair
about his temples.

Every angle that comprised him
had been softened.
By either mileage or measure
remained unclear,
but his belly was round.
He stood stoop shouldered.
When away from his desk
his footsteps
evidenced no desire
to reach a destination.

His thoughts were elsewhere.
It was 4:45 on a Friday.

Mr. Jacoby's function
was becoming obsolete,
rendered digital,
though his pension
would not be threatened
as his eyes scanned the street
they showed bitterness,
rebuking youthful promise,
newfound ambition
and freedom.

Well into his middle age,
his life was comprised
of the mountainess molehills
forged from long made compromises,
and well considered pragmatisim.

Everything now was scholarship plans,
deferred compensation,
and retirement math,
but his fantasies remained vibrant.
All was chaos at last,
and Martin Jacoby?
He would be a hero.

This would happen elsewhere.
It was 4:45 on a Friday.

2008 Via Peccadi

9:44 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

La Rue Bourbon
Current mood: uncomfortable
Category: Writing and Poetry

La Rue Bourbon

Part-time Prometheus
he got caught without a match
out on Bourbon street,
in a wind-whipped rain
that smelled of kerosene,
amidst breezes
bearing the taste of coal.

Out there,
under skies resembling asphalt,
the thunder rang out
portentious
sounding
somehow ominous
a harbinger of harsher winds
shouting maledictions
somewhere
in the Caribean sea,

but on Bourbon St.
there wasn't yet
the feel of that
no malevolent tidings,
no sense of a harsher threat
just one slighlty sodden
meteorologist,
accidently turned Promethean
hoping to set a spark
to catch a fire,
and set more than sandbags,
against a rising tide.

This man felt helpless.
He had no bullhorn,
no one was listening,
for him
there was no hope of airplanes.
There was doppler radar,
and its angry green blot.
Our part time Promethean
had no lighter now
no spark to catch,
nor a safety match,

and as he passed
the corner of Toulousse
in the courtyard
the parrots began to scream.

2008 Via Peccadi

12:31 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Mid-size
Current mood: blessed
Category: Writing and Poetry

Mid-Size

This town tastes like
worn down shoe leather
street salt encrusted,
soaked to a darker brown,
and moldering,
slowly stiffening,
but molded to fit your toes.

In the early evenings
the halcyon glow
that breaks orange
across snowdrifts
is lacking in warmth,
has not a welcoming tone,
and though it is pastel,
this glow,
recalls nothing so much
as the bonemeal gray
of winter mornings.

Fact is,
this city is small,
its sidewalks
make you feel like
you're in high school halls,
the cops are provincial,
and far too many
of the faces passed
look familiar.

Rest assured though,
this town does keep its secrets.
It pulls its smile taut
across its jaundiced skull,
and though in the coming months
the soft spring rains
may serve to lull
one's outrage
this town stays small...

...no one here remains anonymous,
and no one here...

...is innocent.

2008 Via Peccadi[/

8:59 AM - 4 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Still Life With Alcohol
Current mood: bored
Category: Writing and Poetry

Still life with alcohol

Last night,
along Mayfair street
there staggered,
balance impaired by whiskey,
someone
who had
long since missed the boat.

His cheeks,
had the coarseness
of briar thorn.
Stubble seldom shaven,
his laughter
showed the frayed edges
of his patience,
and though his overcoat
smelled of many things,
not a one of them was hope.

This man held the sum of his dreams
in a worn brown bag
that was bottle shaped
and obscured
the color of the glass
that sat beneath it,
and although this man,
whose name we have omitted
had a home,
or at least,
a place that he could sit in
each pull on that bottle
tasted just like quitting,
and it became
more likely that
he would lean against a doorway
to
at last
succumb
to the welcome kiss of frost.

Via Peccadi

10:23 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Annnonymity
Current mood: confused
Category: Writing and Poetry

Anonymity

Our cities teem with faces,

so congested with them

that one

need not seek them out.

They are inescapable.

Seen

without being sought,

bodies milling together

hands

thinking of touching,

as feet

turn the sidewalks down.

These people…

…are the lifeblood of our cities.

Sidewalks and streets

capillaries and arteries

people's movements…

…they dictate the pulse,

but these selfsame cities…

…they lack a heart

behind their heartbeat.

They have

no unifying purpose,

they want

for grace and glory

rhythm a consequence

of want and necessity

not evidence

of some collective will.

Nine to five,

or some other steady grind

most motivations

seemingly simple:

food for the table

clothing for the back,

and though the faces,

are inescapable

ubiquitous

their stories

are nowhere near

as obvious.

They are faces

milling a steady grind

only upon exerted effort

do they take on a name,

and so

although

our cities…

…our cities

necessitate exposure,

they are

in no way intimate.

They force awareness,

but do not encourage contact

most selves remaining private

in even

the most public place…

…So…

…then…

…are these people?

They are…

…nothing more

than faces,

milling a steady grind,

wanting for contact,

dreaming

of grace and glory,

thinking of touching, but

remaining anonymous

nothing more than faces

pulsing these arteries

as day fades into night.

2008 Via Peccadi

1:57 PM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Christmas Amidst the Scuppers
Current mood: cheerful
Category: Writing and Poetry

Christmas Amidst the Scuppers

The bartop was cracked,
worn and weathered
old lineoleum,
but the wood at its edges
seemed somewhat more honest
reassuring even
a well worn oak
stained dark,
and rubbed down gentle,
by three generations worth
of elbows.

As ever and always,
this setting remained humble.
A stop amongst walkways,
this simple barroom,
one moment's peace
to those often denied
even a moment's rest,

and tonight the bar just seemed
somewhat more cheerful,
edged in red,
but not in anger.
This was the want for fellowship,
for better tidings,
and for judgement
to somehow miss its mark.

Yes,
Christmas
had come down to the scuppers.
It did not spare its tidings
even to the bereaved,
or those downtrodden,
rather it minded the shadows.
It slunk through alleyways,
and lingered a bit
even on the humbelest of doorsteps,
offering a moment of mercy,
generally,
even upon
the most recalcitrant of hearts.

Christmas came even to the scuppers.
It did not forget anyone.
Not the blacksheep,
or the scoundrel.
Not the wastrel,
or the bitter malcontent,

and the bar seemed for that,
just a bit more open,
somehow more welcoming.
Offering more solace,
as was meant to be.
Each faced his fellows
cheeks flushed by whiskey,
but breathing easier,
and if just for this passing hour
knowing at last
the gentle kiss of peace.

2007 Via Peccadi

12:26 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

the kiss of wine
Current mood: chipper
Category: Writing and Poetry

and now... for something completely different (for me anyway):

The Kiss of Wine

Last night…
…had the breath of wine,
the kiss of languor,
and the warmth of blood,
but the dawn awoke jagged,
and brittle
having the character
of an old bleached bone,
and what silences there were…
…they asked questions.
The corners of the room…
…they cast out recriminations,
the girl
she was still sleeping,
and in no position to judge
but,
last night…
      …the wine…
…had lent you both some honesty
the freedom
to give in to what was wanted
needs
well met
with anxious lust its own reward….
…and yet,
under a morning light
that crept in uncertain,
as if lacking resolve,
or some firmer sense of purpose
there was not
the same
steadiness of reasons,
nor that desperate wanting
that dead fixed neediness.
No there was wondering,
in fact a faltering,
a stuttering grasp
towards resolve…

…and the girl…
…the girl
was stirring
at last awakening
turning away from the wall,
and…
      …and…
…she…
…was smiling,
and then nothing else
much mattered
at all.

2007 Via Peccadi

5:24 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Memoriam
Current mood: chipper
Category: Writing and Poetry

Memoriam

The death went unreported.
There had been no press.
No accumulation of news clippings.
No television reporters,
and no publishing checks.
Just one more runaway gone,
covered in curious markings
internal lacerations,
and the faint suggestion
of lesions...

...and I would hope to say
that her family had come
to state their claim,
to at least lay her down to solace,
that when buried
she could reclaim her name,
but she was put down
as one Jane Doe
the grave unmarked
on an otherwise
unremarkable evenin'.

Of foul play there was no question.
She had been bruised for sport.
Had it been part of a pattern?
That no one would mention.
No most definitely,
keep things quiet.
Of course.
Some people just went missing,
and there were always
corpses
no one wanted,
those left unremembered,
and lain down unremarked
without the faintest trace
of weeping.

The girl's name
had been Alice,
and when she dreamed
her ears
went wanting for song,
and not far from the lights of Broadway
she saw her
very last star...

...laid down unremarked,
unnoticed,
and forgotten

very quickly.

2007 Via Peccadi

10:40 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Inbetween Time
Current mood: blah
Category: Writing and Poetry

Inbetween Time

The dominant color is gray.
Skies and walkways tarnished.
Autumn is passing away
but this is not yet winter,
not yet,
not today,
though the wind tastes of frost,
and each breeze
becomes a harbinger
of a cold that scrapes raw
one's memories,
lending the air
the taste of entropy,
as it rapidly loses
the more tempting scent
of harvests.

Tonight the trees stand barren.
Absent fruit,
they lack
their once green crowns.
Their fingers
stretch skyward
in hopes of sun,
and in expectation
of the season
that renews them,

but that day is long in coming,
after short days that bruise,
under skies steel and cobalt,
over walks bearing crystalline hues.
Tonight is an inbetween time
beyond crops now gathered,
and the unrelenting bite
of storm winds,

and the sound carries forever,
because the air is light
by cold deprived of moisture
and most every night,
though harsh in aspect
fills with twinkling sights,
the gleam of daggers,
as star and moon
illuminate
what's frozen,

yet these nights maintain a beauty,
in spite a green now gone,
in spite the slender warmth of morning,
and a now laggardly dawn
The inbetween time
retains its loveliness
throughout its stillness
as the cold gleams.

Via Peccadi

1:02 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

leaves
Current mood: content

Leaves

Dead leaves dance,
with the texture of parchment.
More brittle than glass.
Brown the same color
of worn paper bags
absent
the sweetness
of the long since consumed
contents.

They whisper.
Voices soft.
Cadences varied.
Borne by wind.
Refreshed by rain,
then ground to dust
by the feet that tred
upon them.

With the turning of seasons,
the coming,
and melting of snow,
before the passage of time
once verdant crowns
at best hope
that they become compost.

2007 Via Peccadi

8:50 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

working
Current mood: cynical
Category: Writing and Poetry

Working

There was a hint of lemongrass
and sage
crept around the corners
out from the kitchen
and from there
on down the stairs,

but it could not penetrate
the numbing of the workday
the frantic want for holiday
right now
this tastes like apathy
balled up jackets
and still worn shoes.

and it is all about crooked ties,
sweatstained jackets,
and the longing for the weekend,
as if the TV would have meaning then
pour out a long warm whiskey friend.
Drink it slow.

In the kitchen
it was
an accumulation of the dishes
longing for kinder days
and wishes
that the days
did not grind on so.

This was no housewife
she was workaday
for a reason
mortgaged to the eyes
with every season
passed to mark the days,

she felt worn down
looked just slightly
more well creased
and
with calloused hands
it was glasses to the table
and half a smile
were she able
pour out some wine
drink it slow.

2007 Via Peccadi

7:48 AM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

frayed and sullen
Current mood: discontent
Category: Writing and Poetry

Frayed and Sullen

There is no belief in fables.
Not here.
Oh no!
Though standing
as proof of parable,
alas,
alone
we are mindful
and know at least
that we were honest.

No!
There are...
...no facades amongst us fallen.
Even our masks stand true,
we respond to one another
though we don't call out,
and few
of our liaisons
offer any reassurance.

So we fumble for our kisses,
at last,
and with vacant eyes,
fingers bent by scheming
murmuring
our cynical sighs
hearts akin to cinders
long since withered
by the furnace of our passions,

and though once we leapt with fury,
now we walk a cautious gait
there is a meager bone called hoping,
now long since cast away
there is a calculus of safety,
and of advantage.

So it is with eyes half hollow,
with ears half closed
that we recall the songs of minstrels
long past,
until
our only music
is of sirens,
paramedics,
and of traffic.

2007 Via Peccadi

12:46 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment