The Mercy Hour,
one can taste the tranquility outside
as emotion-dust finally settles;
all is forgiven and forgotten
- . – e v en i f o n l y a f l e e t i n g t h o u g h t – . -
Memory of day cools down,
crumbling into gully-knifed street bellies,
only to dissolve and reshape future hopes,
crusts of glued-together dreams,
only to be picked up at dawn (or trampled into tarmac cracks)
by the soles of shoes.
He wears the blood stain on his shirt sleeve
like the rose clenched between his teeth;
he flails his arms about
to the rhythm of a crooked cardboard cross
held together only by sticky tape
and two white river rocks.
The mind melts;
an out-of-focus angel writes
by utilizing the shadow-creases of his sweat-soaked shirt:
ЯIP
Dusk falls like a phantom leper,
and crawls through these city streets;
its shadow hisses
invocations of hopelessness
and promises of despair
that fill the sewers
with echoes of jubilation.
Raven cuts the sky in half.
My candle mutters.
Loaf of bread on wheels – green,
like mold.
The same old inscriptions – dull-black,
cold
‘free fuck!’
burnt
into the dull red vinyl
seat in front of me.
Disappointed
(disgusted and disturbed)
at my inability
to memorize the ten digit number,
I massage my temples
and pick up the smell
of bus-metal hand rails
in the palm of my hand.
A bit like curtains
on a sunny Sunday morning,
my attention is drawn
to the smooth, golden thigh
of the passenger who,
at the next stop,
gets up
and straightens her skirt.
Her click-clack heels
fade over the metal steps
(she didn’t touch the railing)
and into the purple-bruise
pavement fumes,
consumed by dirt,
except for her hair
that glistens like kelp.
Stomach flutters!
Our eyes meet
for a silver second
neither here,
nor there;
the stare hovers
somewhere
over confusion atlas oceans.
She lowers her gaze
while I pretend
to figure out the ‘foreign symbols’
of the sign that reads Seven-Eleven –
I can’t help but wish
that she is the one
who wrote the faded fuck number
I keep fingering.
Dusk,
dark stains are spreading
rust
through rough-bladed grass;
blood crusts
in the faint cracks
in the soles of his big-buckled boots.
A slap of annoyance;
the bug’s been bugging,
buzz-sensing
raisin-sized blood clots
grimed into the ears
and deep creases (such an age give-away!)
on the nape of his neck.
Pale faced
in the orange flicker-glow
(go figure!)
of street lamps unveiled in the satin-yellow flow
of winter’s autumn breath,
his angelic eyes are distorted …
but there’s something about the mouth,
something about the way
it casts twisted shadows,
slow-dancing,
and bulging over the upper lip,
and over the cracks of the litter-strewn sidewalk -
a root-canal-gone-wrong,
or simple blood-stippled dimples?
A woolen coat sleeve
brushes against leather trousers,
breathing
a wisp of life
into the already-dead victim’s eyes,
whose gullible hand (such a dead-give-away!)
shoots out to accept his lies
transparent to the touch;
piano-fingered nails,
manicured,
and painted
in blood-streaked brilliance,
mere proof of has-been
human existence.
The garage door creaked open;
like a wooden stage curtain
it revealed,
in
s t o p –
s t a r t –
s l o w m o t i o n,
bright morning rays
that looked more like fire-breathing caterpillars
chomping their way through the leaves
of what was left of the gnarled branches.
The forbidden apricot tree;
like an out-of-place reclining Buddha
resting on its side
with only a broken elbow as support,
neither breathing
nor giving thought
to such trivial matters as serpents,
coiled around the splintered cracks in the bark,
glistening with obvious, black-scaled intent.
The light was spreading;
like an infectious disease
it started
B o
u N
C i
n G
off the concrete,
a multitude of rubber viruses
leaving not even the hairline scratches
in the lone, grubby window unscathed.
An army of ants,
having a simultaneous flashback
of a particularly nasty run-in
with a five year-old boy named Adam,
who held between a freckled thumb and forefinger
a magnifying glass which he introduced as
‘My little scorcher friend from Hell’,
scurried in all directions,
leaving the bloated contents
of a stainless steel food bowl
floating like dead fish eyeballs.
A purple-frowned cloud blotted out the sun,
casting an eerie shadow
that crushed every hot-mandibled creature
in the wake of its luminous ink,
highlighting the pathetic flutter
of white and pink origami butterflies,
folded,
discarded by the souls
of those devoured by the storm;
b O u
G a i
N V i
l l
e A
flowers,
blown in from old Eve’s place down the street.
Life is a black peppercorn
crushed between the teeth,
pushed in there by the creature’s tongue
(a toothpick between thumb-and-forefinger to pick {at} its own destiny),
exploding in a single breath,
rushing over the lips:
piquant citrus,
floral dreams,
and wooden notes;
a song for the Damned.
It’s the hour before traffic,
around that time when the paperboys
sniff, all of them rubbing their noses on sleeves.
The smog is fowl,
a stray dog howls
orange explosions of bitter pain
through which the sun battles to make a comeback.
Amber lights
flash
right of way
for
whoever’s driving home from the pub,
whoever’s daft enough to face the day
that way.
The last prostitute packs her bag,
stubs out her fag
and zips her cunt shut,
‘A fat cow like me can only wait for so long.’
Soon the sky is Usual Blue,
discoloured by security swipes,
the fake shake of hands,
and Columbia’s finest
coffee-stained
coffee shop waiters
who sell the finest sugar cube coke
to those hardworking folk
who keep our nation ticking,
and tocking –
the digital clock,
my rooster with the fraudulent eyes,
tells me it’s time to let the snooze button go.
Copyright © Ramonez Ramirez 2009
All Rights Reserved
The Garden:
Platform thirteen,
a mechanical garden
of cerebral-grey gravel,
cigarette butt daisies (yellow – and white, if you squint),
and clear plastic bags that dance over the tracks
with the arrogance of dead autumn leaves come to life
on a breezy afternoon.
The Weather:
Despite the nagging wind
and the tomato sauce-and-grease coloured leaves
pirouetting like a troupe of cabaret dancers (on methamphetamines),
the air is stuffy,
overcast
iron pillar tree trunks support
a giant silver cloud (no sign of a silver lining just yet)
through which the sun breaks
in sporadic, dust-fibered puppet strings,
interrupted only
by the five-second hiss-and-sputter cloud bursts,
which thunder from a camouflaged loudspeaker
somewhere overhead.
The People:
An elderly lady
with an Edith Piaf hair-do and red wine lips
who sits
alone on a bench –
smoke bubbling from her nose
while she hums a hymne a l’amour.
A little girl,
rag doll under the arm,
pointing and giggling at one of the gardeners
whose mustache makes lip somersaults,
to the sound of shrill (plastic-blue) whistles that spill from his mouth,
Get out of the flowerbed!
The hotdog vendor
(aka Autumn Leaf Producer),
gawking around (for the next lucky customer)
with prison tattoo green eyes
and a mustard-teeth-smeared sneer.
The street mother without a bra
(revealing Victoria’s Secret),
tripling around with charcoal-covered feet;
she holds out liquorices-laced fingers
for just enough for a bit of milkohol.
The pedophile –
yes, you’ve seen him before;
the one wearing the Oxford shoes (brogued at the cap),
whiskey-stained tee, and rumpled grey suit over the arm
that covers his briefcase of magical toys.
And you.
Copyright © Ramonez Ramirez 2009
All Rights Reserved
