A Figure In White

steps up to a strange castle

home of dogs but not man

dogs watching but not calling

staring but never confronting

she lived on the edge of the bog

trapped by the forest

a single path in

trapped past the path

a knight called Sleep

came upon me

and i could not pass back

Sleep came for me

and i could make no move against It

unarmed, Sleep put a finger on me

and i passed out of light

hitting the ground

and coming back up

in an upside down world

the world was dark but i could see everything,

in myth they called this the Gloom

to see nothing but to see it for miles

like a negative image, dark and silver

the world was dark and silver

and Sleep was nowhere in sight

but i feel Sleep was all around

the world was a twin to my own

and so i tried to head back across the path

between the forest and the bog

but here, on the other side of the mirror

the dogs were men, mute and all eyes

staring but not calling

not a move to threaten me,

just to watch

in the edge, in the distance

a figure in white

appeared and vanished in the corner of my eye

when i looked there was nothing

but i followed just the same

towards the castle

but in its stead the castle was a small frail shack

made of bent willow and birch

it looked as though it would have flown apart if i touched it

but even with the low shudder and echo of freezing winds

it stood as sturdy as brick

i passed through the side

for it had no doors

and inside the figure in white

stood

it was a pale young woman

and she said nothing

and i said nothing

the air moved through me

and with a flutter of my eyes

the figure in white

appeared from behind

while she stood before me

and pressed a frozen twig of a finger

into my temple

and like a knife i saw pure white

and cried out in pain

and as swift as ever

i was back from the Gloom

and beside the bog as before

far from Sleep

but i stood before a blackened hag

as bent as birch twigs

as fluid as strands of willow

and dead silent

and there i stood not a man

but a dog

beside the other dogs

silent and staring

the hag vanished

leaving us to wait

as still as the tomb

and there i stand

waiting along the path

between the bog

and the forest

and here i will stand

and wait

But Not To Dream

when we got to california, what did we find?

when we got to california, where could we go from there?

we followed our dreams

from the dead heart

of a rotting nation

through toil and sacrifice

we left our homes

and severed our bonds

we dropped every penny

on a losing venture

we gambled and lost our way

dizzy and cheapened

we walked like kings

and when we found those promised shores

we stooped, and begged

just to survive

and the price of that wager was our lives

we followed our dreams

from the dead heart

of a rotting nation

all the way to the golden gates,

we followed our dreams westward

to the sea

where our dreams

dashed upon the rocks

and like a weight

set around our necks

we followed over the edge

the wreckage of our dreams made manifest

washed up in the tide pools

and the rooks and vermin

clutch at what became of us

and grow fat off our misfortune

when they mention icarus

aiming for the sun

they never flesh out

the fear and panic,

the rot and waste

that icarus left on this world

when he found the sea

so, the wages of daring

is ruin;

the price of a king's step

is found

in the splintered heap we become

when we got to california, what did we find?

when we got to california, where could we go from there?

and long after picked clean

what fragments and trinkets

that collect in the tide pools and surf

will be little more than a half-memorable

offering from the sea;

a caution that resonates

in some idiot sub-speck of brain,

the instinct to toil

but not to dream

Kosciuszko Hall, 1964

i’ve known this customer for 3 years now. he’s always been pleasant, interested in my work. he asks questions now and then but not in an irritating or prying way. he’s a curious man. from the casual 5 minutes we share before i treat his property, i have gleaned that he teaches high school math. and he looks the part; dry, monotone but in a semi-rural midwestern way. his glasses wouldn’t have been in fashion 30 years ago. all his teeth were gapped and when he spoke his tongue was a bit clumsy. like he had a speech impediment when he was young but overcame it with enough practice in the mirror. nice guy, normal and boring. but the world is lousy with people that look normal and boring but harbor a strangeness in them. 

he’s a teetotaler but not preachy about it. the type of man that has a club soda with lime at the bar and sticks around for the local color and some conversation. he always takes a handful of matchbooks as souvenirs. three of them. he impresses this number on me. as if it means something he’ll never explain. he takes them home and stores them in a small box he built to accommodate the size of a matchbook but probably about 20 some deep. he showed me a few of his pride and joy. matchbooks he would’ve been too young to gain first hand. some advertise war bonds. some bear the name of the old ‘sons of norway’ in palatine. i wonder if there’s some flee market mafia that deals just in old matchbooks. the artwork is beautiful, if not unassuming.

i wouldn’t pay too much attention to this customer but something about him makes me take note. chuck remembers my name by the sound of my voice when i call. 

‘hi this is..’

‘henry, how you doing’

he always knows within 3 syllables time which i feel is a bit odd. i don’t think i have a notable voice. but who knows.

chuck knows that i take care of my folks. that i came back from grad school. that i wanted to be a teacher, like him, but got lost along the way. i guess that’s just the way it goes. we get lost along the way. he knows i make something in the neighborhood of nothing. not enough to move upstream. just enough to drown away another year. and then another.

i keep it brief and detached. but he can tell. people may listen for shit. people may lack empathy. but they can tell. you linger just a little. your smile is just a touch vacant. looks like a smile but something about it says there’s something missing. people know when you’re a glass half empty. or in my case, a glass that broke.

he back hands my arm.

‘ya know what? i want you to have something.’

he runs into the garage, pulls out the small wooden box. thumbing through his collection like he knows just what i need. this is the key you need to open the attic. this is the potion that gives men the strength to endure.

‘this is just what you need’

hands me a matchbook. Kosciuszko Hall, 1964.

‘where the party begins and ends’

on the inside, it’s down three matches. with the words ‘Big Bad Wolf’ and a phone number writ in pen. just a little faded.

‘you look like a Big Bad Wolf’

i give an honest grin and tell him i have to run. i shake his hand and head to the next job.