Autumn Rain

     Locked up inside, autumn rain torrent, forced in front of a TV screen
     Viewing Japanese cartoons of violence. We saw in each hero, hard
     Drinkers with eyes
     Like puddles.
     In the overexposed house, we glanced outside and caught
     Among the darkness, dirty rainwater, rivers in our river rock bed,
     A Radio! From the 1940’s.
     Orange faceplate, brown wooden structure, arched like the pope’s hat,
     A bit of warmth in the blackness of autumn’s menopausal downpour.
     It was drowning. Wood bubbling with the water sprinkling.
     Our black coats went on.
     Hurry.
     Outside, shoe skins boldly pressing on wet concrete and dirty oceans,
     In the curbside groaning. Alone, like a solder’s corpse, we found it,
     Bound it,
     Lamented over it,
     Chattered of varnish, polish, and returning it
     To former glory.
     No man left behind, no radio through which Orson Welles’ voice
Once breathed,
     Left unaided.
     We took it up, took it home, and cursed the artless souls of those,
     Who originally trashed it.
     Our eyes were keener, more refined. We strapped the radio into
     The truck bed of our best friend, smiled, knowing we had saved it from,
     autumn rain,
     The Curbside of
     Forgotten. The Radio we saved.

It lay in the back of his truck bed,
         We never bought any varnish.
- posted by Brock @ 8:41 PM 2 comments

 
A Porcelain Microwavable Drug Peddler

The mug is a sinister bastard,
Loitering on kitchen counter.
How can you trust something so hollow?
The mug’s white porcelain skin shines like veneer,
Wrapped round the mug’s porcelain exterior.
Painted pink flowers and swirls of red hearts,
The mug’s art,
Like a suit worn by a drug peddler.

Foremost among his sinful contents,
The mug holds in drunkenness, which you sip with
Your lips open wide. A million untold secrets jut out,
Giving birth to embarrassments,
Made of broken painted glassware. You do have self-control,
It should keep you on the narrow road.

Yet! (Sometimes) the mug,
Gives you the other drug.
This one perks your heavy lids right up.
Adrenaline gush begin,
As your heart ramps, spinning,
Like a computer tower fan.

On the countertop at night,
Painted pink and hearts clash against the dark,
Picked out like glowing fish,
On that sandy bottom of hid sea. You with the frosty mug,
Brew at that breakfast nook table.

Meanwhile in Columbia,
The white suited drug lord rushes amongst the Trees.
He hopes the marines
Don’t steal his expensive white powder.
He runs from bullets, but his death rattle comes from sanctions,
Signed in congress (twice every hour).
And the porcelain peddler,
Topped with hops, chemicals and barleys,
Goes on to rip a black hole,
Through your once virgin liver.
The mug does it without ever a shot,
Yes, he does it without the slightest of a doleful glower.
- posted by Brock @ 7:51 PM 3 comments