The Wall of the Cabin

A traveler in a large tan trench coat
whipped his black-grey beard over his shoulder
and foraged through the dark pine forest.
Circling a tree-covered knoll
he heard a harsh, unnatural sound,
a knocking sound. Then suddenly
his blue eyes fell on a cabin, perfect
in its surrounding firs.
It had no doors, no windows, and no chimney.

The traveler went round for a better look,
and on the far side was a burly man,
dressed in corduroy overalls, and bare chest:
he was red-faced, colliding his forehead
against the rough Southerly planks,
leaving small white marks behind.
His elbows, knuckles, and knees, and forehead
all bore bruises, yet he repeatedly smashed them
against the unyielding wall.

Sensing the stranger, the man whipped about,
his long sweaty hair sticking to his face.
A deep bellow preceded bleary dark eyes.
"Who comes near my cabin? I found it
FIRST!! Me, me, me!"
"I'm sorry, I don't want a cabin," the traveler replied,
"What's your name?"
"Greg. And yorn?"
"Samuel. I'm just a wanderer. Why are you
hitting this hard wall?"
"Why? WHY? Because it's not harder than me.
I lost my group to the cold last year,
and my tools. The clues led me here,
from this old map I bought years ago."
"How long have you been here?"
"Around ten days. I'll whither a hole
and peek in first. I'll do it yet."

"Could you use some help?"
"NO, I started with me and I'll end with me,
god damn it! Whatever's inside is mine."
"What about a do..."
"...a DOOR? I've looked, there's no way in
save the skin of my bones! I will
get in.
I will
get in.
Now leave."

The traveler shrugged, and turned woodward.
The knocking continued.


***

It was a month past,
and the snows had fallen heavily,
when the traveler donned his backpack
and made the trudge to the cabin
to check on Greg and his progress.
It was cold about, but the temperature
went even further down on the far side
of the knoll near the cabin.

At the base of the structure
was a curled form, black with frostbite.
The snow built a canyon the width
of the cabin's immaculate eaves--one wall
of wood, another of white.

The traveler furrowed his heavy grey brows
like lover moths dying together,
for the fool who had died trying
to break into a prison.

Bangles

Smoke and Ash

A great cloud billowed through a hundred degrees
over the tops of the dry shrub mountains
round like moles of the earth,
but instead of rain, ashes.
Ashes fell on the plastic manicured dolls
doe-like observing from the front yards
of plastic houses new
as planes resting on shelves over an impossibly deep crevice,
to take off and never land, but fall
forever.  Ashes fell,
and stained upturned blue eyes grey,
and covered the mint green lawns,
and covered the sports cars
and the cosmetic shops
and hid the awnings even
as the owners feverishly pitched more
so that nothing could be seen
     that was made beautiful.
We are the people,
        and I am the cloud.

"A More Internal View of the Fourth" by Victoria Santamorena

Fire balloons of the sky

unfold like lilies blossoming

and burst like blinking devil's eyes

colors fading, brightening

Consume the blackness and assuage

the quietness of the fading stars

cascading down from a freckled sky

dust flecks falling, sparkling

from the heavens like tears of gods



The cracking of some Titan's whip

ringing boldly in the air,

like the cry of a bitter eagle

the deep, dark void converging with the

sunbursts of liberty

swallowed by screams and sirens

swallowed by the wonder of men in awe

nestled in the comfort of tattered lawn chairs

and smiling



Pink-lobster bodies sprawled on the grass

feeling the way America feels,

tickling the generations with

Exposed skin and canisters full of the sweet

foam and froth of taverns

the ale of freedom and the quench of alcoholic smog

that was the Whiskey Rebellion



All is ablaze with a neon glow

all is alight with the rain of fire

eyes wide and rustic with the taste

of Americana

Crimson, indigo, and purity

woven into bands

signs waving against the sky.

Give me liberty or give me death.

The Fourth

The spring jet of sparks blew forth
on the Fourth in the heat and haze.
The sun popped bashfully behind
their whitish blaze, and laughter
boiled briefly in the air for safe digestion,
drew coarse and livid smoke clouds into existence.

The clouds were whitish, hinting distractions,
and all eyes watched the searing flames rise,
never fingering a bucket of water even,


they were so pretty

The winds' warm arms
clutched the smoke, and rushed it
into my iris', dirtying them yellow,
rushed it to all of us standing beside the parade,
an enormous Return To Sender stamp on the package,
yet it seems only I am complaining.