An Announcement

Hi Everyone.

I don’t know how you all feel, but I think it is time for us to start writing here again as a tribute to Paul.

Let me know what you think, or just start posting.

Much love.

A facet of mirror in The Orchid Room…

I

Let us go you and I to The Orchid Room to hold or
pry open oysters – to get laid or to lay like silver
slivery things on half shells of seduction…

Someone like you dripping honey wants to feel the sting
of a bee who has himself just flown in like a gentleman
escaping another swarm hive of admiration…

II

Let us go you and I to The Orchid Room to touch or to
be touched by an itch or to burn or to be burned by an
empty lust, or to relive a casual acquaintance…

Someone thin, stands against a wall like a photograph and
later when you embrace them on the dance floor you both
notice that each of you has become thinner still…

III

Let us go you and I to The Orchid Room to be seen by
the unseen who want to sweat and melt ironies at a table
and shout and scream insults and sarcasms…

Someone milk moon moans, and is not worried that the
drink jar shaking, is the mixing and preparing of some
thing meant to be consumed by a king or queen…

…or even a peon…

Poetman

Revenge…and a flight of fancy…

He left his house…and though it was raining like just before a tornado, and spikes of light particles were piercing the hearts of road ghost – his car found its way through the gloom and pale to the driveway of The Orchid Room. Alone in his car, he smoked another cigarette, and made a bet with the devil as to the precise time its ash would fall – it had extended itself like a precarious bit of gray flake at the edge of a quantum reason about love, and the reasons for loving – its falling was eminent – its precise time, unknown.

She was inside, and the light there was different – a different swallow of gray smoke, with personalities that were glowing and shimmering like halos, and her Ben was not her Ben anymore – he is not even a memory of the Ben she had known (to her now, there had never been a Ben..). Her smile – the natural one she wore for special occasions is radiate – as if she were a widow over the mourning of wool, and entitled to the white silk of an evening out, and the attentions she is getting.

…a produce truck leaves a warehouse on its way into the city…the drivers eyes peer over the dash, straining and looking for signs of a road that is familiar, one that has been driven daily or a thousand times or more – and sheets of water fall like walls of glass, and the spark drops of oncoming headlights roll from the bottom of the windshield trailing up and over the truck in a shower of sparkles, and then dissipate into the dark wet air.

Ben turns the heater up, his cold bones aching, and the line between what is right, and what is wrong blurs like the rained upon world around him. In his hand he fingers a trigger manufactured in Italy – a Barretta 9 mm, made to settle disputes with lead joined to brass like a lover – and then exploding. And though it is wet wet and dreary wet outside – inside he feels like a tinder box looking to be wood in a chimney.

She has already misplaced him- turned him like a case over to an attorney – forgotten him like a 25 year to life felon. Her shoes hold her feet lovely, and her nylons are intimate with her thrilled and wild womaness, and her dress reminds a prince at the bar of a princess lost in a poker game a long time ago; and she is scintillating like breathing and laughter and the rudeness of the man in the car will never be a dull ache in her underwear again.

…a produce truck closes in on the city, the driver wondering how he has managed to navigate through a wet world, the world of the submerged, on its roads through a deluge like a blind man on his way to a shelter. His cargo is dry and a swarm of gnats in the trailer are delirious trying to figure out which cantaloupe to eat next. He barely reads a sign almost past and exits up a ramp into the city – turning left towards Main.

And here is a mini movie: a climax without exhilaration.

Ben rubs away tears and then the tension of tears from his face, forming his hands into fist and rubbing his eyes until colors form kaleidoscopes at the back end of his head and he is reminded of a picture of himself as a child winning a race – crossing a finish line into the arms of his mother. This picture is back home on an upstairs mantle and near it is a letter written by her a long time ago, and he wonders, lips moving and now sounds coming out – “What was in that letter – what did she say?” His curiosity builds a dam in the puddle of his despair and he releases his finger from the trigger, starts his car and slowly drives out of the parking lot passing a produce truck making a delivery to The Orchid Rooms kitchen.

She clinks a glass with the prince at the bar, snuggles with a baron holding court in a corner, and dances with a drug lord, a musician and a comedienne all in rapid succession. And she does this like a movie star – everyone wanting to know her name and an address where flowers and gifts could be sent as adoration and affection.

Blood is in her body and it is circulating through the lithe strength lines of her legs and up and into her upper body as her respiration slowly returns to normal – she is hungry and sits down and orders a compote of fruit and smells the tables flower and winks at the candle there, like it was an old friend.

When the waiter brings the compote and lifts the steel dome of its fancy presentation a swarm of gnats spiral up from the bowl, hover around the flower like frenzied lovers and then they find the womans white dress irresistibly attractive and that is where each of them lands as if they had found a new home.

It is only irony and not an actual fact that Ben thinks he hears a scream as he inserts a key into the lock of his front door…

A produce truck laden with the labors of a farmers talent exits the parking lot, turning back towards the highway and the next town on its route. It is still raining outside, and fish are migrating back to the ocean hopping from puddle to pool sometimes alone and sometimes in schools. And the driver is certain that he has sent a clear message to The Orchid Room management – that he expects to be paid or next time he will bring spiders…

Poetman