Burning House: a poem

An insurance salesman, a philosopher, an economist, and a pyromaniac (a hobby; he’s currently bouncing back and forth between a few contractors for work) walk into a bar. They’ve all had a long day and the silence is dense enough to be comfortable. It hangs around and between them, cloudlike, until the pyromaniac turns to the rest of the group and asks, "How much is a house worth when it's burning to the ground?"

A ripple shoots through the airs, shattering the tired stillness of the room. Each of the men stirs as the shards of echoing sound hit him. Tiny enough to sting just a little at impact, it shakes each man awake. “What?” asks the insurance salesman as the clouds part from in front of his eyes.

The pyromaniac repeats his question and the men look at him, puzzled. The insurance salesman, a simple man who enjoys the sound of his own voice, laughs and says, “Well… I guess it depends on the policy the homeowner has.”

The pyromaniac sits quietly, staring off into space. The economist, highly educated with an ego just as inflated as his grades had been, decides to fill the silence and says, “In this economy, it’s probably not worth anything while it’s still standing.” He looked at the insurance salesman and smiled. “If I were you, I’d definitely be investigating the homeowners.”

The insurance salesman laughs again and says, “That’s kind of our standard operating procedure. Our clientele is usually pretty oblivious but every once in a while someone can be convinced they may have forgotten to turn the stove off.”

“What about people in lower income neighborhoods? In my experience, they usually remember things like that,” said the economist.

The insurance salesman snorts and, after a moment, wipes the tears from his eyes as he gasps for breath. “Even if they could afford it, they know their crap isn’t worth insuring!”

The economist can’t help but smirk. The philosopher, a man of somber disposition, ignores the larger implications behind the joke and asks, “Is there not value in any kind of house? The shelter it provides from the elements must be worth something or houses wouldn’t be worth anything regardless of their status as charred or not. Think of the homeless. Don’t they desire a home of any sort to shelter them form the elements? If you’re going to say more modest homes aren’t worth anything, then you have to agree that larger homes, which only differ in giving the inhabitants more space to themselves, are worthless as well. If space is the primary source of value, then the homeless would be the happiest.”

The pyromaniac’s empty glass clinks as he sets it down on the laminated bar. “That’s an interesting point. I was just going to say that it was only valuable as it was burning. You can’t buy entertainment like that.”

With that he waves to his friends, spins around on his stool, and walks outside. Through the door, his friends watch as he disappears into the night and shiver at the blast of cold wind that rushed in behind him. Moments later, the fire alarm begins screeching and the panicked bar patrons run out to find their home away from home lighting up the night sky like a mighty torch.

The World Is On Fire

The world is on fire. The flames are invisible but only burn all the hotter for it. Since the beginning, we’ve crawled out of the ooze from which we’re born, sopping wet and mercifully coated with a protective layer of the liquid still clinging to us. The coats vary in thickness, some more uneven than others. The flames lick at us but all they taste is the ooze for a while. The ooze doesn’t last. With each fiery kiss, some of it evaporates away, becoming a cloud that will one day rain over the pool of our origin and give a new life its chance.

Eventually the flames burn through. It’s a subtle change because the layers melt away one at a time and it gets hotter inside each time. Yet when it happens, we know without knowing that it is over. Our time is not immediately over but we feel the burn, numbing our senses, and nothing can be the way it was before. Our chances to live, love, learn, and explore have slipped away through our fingers like the waters of a lazy creek. The End comes when it will, as a thief in the night. We know only that it is impending by the bitter taste of our every breath. Smiles fade quicker and don’t mean as much as they did before. One day we all look past the rain and the life it brings and see only the mud upon which it all rests. Hollow laughter echoes through the empty hallways of our dwelling places and we dissolve with the sound. The blurry, dull edge to the world becomes little more than dead wait, preparing the burdened for their rest.

The thickness of each coat is apportioned by luck alone to each individual. A heavy, even coat is granted to some, gifting them with long life and good health. Some are given a heavy coat, thinner in some places than in others. This results in a long life, though the exposed areas bring problems that will eat away at the physical body long before its time to go. There are an unfortunate few given a sparse coat if any at all. These are the poets, prophets, and mad men of the world. From the first breath, they feel the fire eating away at them. They know that The End is just as much a part of our life as the first breath that announced The Beginning. These are the stirrer of souls that demand that we acknowledge that our powers are limited to between these points. The world is burning and so are we. The fire is unquenchable! What will you do before you burn away to ash?

The Roommate: A Horror Story

Chester kicked the lowest step, hoping to knock the snow from his shoes. He hated winter. His teeth chattered and his hand shook as he tried to guide his key to the lock. The warmth on the other side of the door seemed to be taunting him.

He heard the sharp click and his clumsy, gloved hands scrambled for the doorknob. He leapt inside and slammed the door behind him in Jack Frost’s hideous face. The wind howled as it blew across the covered porch. He flipped the deadbolt and collapsed on the couch. He was cold, hungry, and exhausted.

It had been an extremely long day. His first class had started at 7 o’clock sharp that morning. Within ten minutes, he’d watched helplessly as the snow began to fall steadily, filling in the space between the surviving mounds from the last storm.

He trudged from one building to the next with his head held down against the tiny white flakes that stung his face. Little white specks covered the front of his coat before melting away.

After lunch, the hours at his on-campus job seemed to drag on for years. There was never enough movement to consider himself busy, yet naps were always interrupted as soon as the thought entered his mind. Like his father, his dark brown hair began showing silvery interruptions at an early age. Unlike his father, his had started just before his twelfth birthday and spread like shattered glass. Chester didn’t look in the mirror much because it only reminded him that he wore it all just as heavily on his face. The work study job didn’t help.

He was finally home. Or as close to home as he had anymore. Moving from one parent’s house to the next and then back to school again, he felt like a transient. The constant motion gave the world a blurry look and kept him from establishing any permanent type of anchor. It was unsettling in the best of times and nauseating in the worst.

He lay in a puddle on the couch for a long time. Hunger began creeping in from the periphery of his vision until it finally moved him to swing himself up onto his feet and mosey into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and crouched to see what delicacies were waiting for him. He was horrified to find a few pieces of cheese and some pasta from the week before the only things that greeted his eyes.

For the past two weeks, Chester had been readjusting. His roommate from the previous three semesters decided it was time to take a break from school and “find himself”. Chester was skeptical of any enlightenment found while waiting tables at a sports bar but he certainly wasn’t going to say anything. His new roommate was from way up north. Even after a fortnight, they were still trying to hash out a way through the language barrier.

Chester’s new roommate was a classical pianist. In his room, he’d play beautifully for hours, filling the whole apartment with lush sound from his keyboard. He always seemed to be on his way to meet up with friends to “compose some music”. Chester would joke with his friends that he was afraid he’d come home some day to find his apartment littered with musicians, sheet music and powdered wigs.

Chester loved music and had little problem with the incessant practicing. More often than not, he enjoyed it. What Chester did have a problem with was his new roomie’s habit of staying up through the night, periodically breaking the cover of his room to eat whatever he could find in the apartment. Chester had been waking up to find more and more of his food disappearing. Just yesterday Chester had politely given a verbal cease-and-desist request. Clearly, the apologies and assurances that it wouldn’t happen again hadn’t meant anything. They’d established early on a system of alternating who bought the things they both used (paper plates, toilet paper, etc.). He’d hoped that any of the other’s foods one might happen to eat would logically fall into this category. No dice. The grocery list on the side of the refrigerator was long and arrogant.

His roommate was gone. Chester dug through cabinet after cabinet until he finally found a package of two Pop Tarts. He was hungry enough that he didn’t care. After “dinner”, he began to look around the common areas of the apartment, taking stock of the damages. He was about to use the bathroom when he noticed they were out toilet paper and running extremely low on liquid hand soap.

Chester, angrier than he had words to describe, threw his arctic gear, still wet, back on and grabbed his keys. He slammed the door behind him and began planning exactly what he would say when the time came. This was too far. His teeth were chattering again by the time he heard the deadbolt click again.

His mind was racing as he walked towards a friend’s apartment down the block. It had been one of those days for the past week straight.

Chester stepped up to the door and knocked three times in rapid succession. Before his knuckles rapped against the door the third time, it hit him like a freight train on a tight schedule. All of his angst intensified and immediately spun in a new direction. It was his turn to go shopping.

Los Gatos de la Noche Preview

Los gatos de la noche cantan a la luna.

Se dicen que ella escucha y sonríe.

He heard the rain fall around him but he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything but the cold. It was creeping in from his extremities. He knew it wouldn’t be much longer. It couldn’t be much longer. There was an odd comfort in this.

He didn’t notice the café he had collapsed in front of but it only seemed fair. None of the people inside had noticed him either.

A young couple sat by the window, warmed by the heat radiating from the cups on the table between them. The young man was babbling on about any and every subject that came to mind for no other reason than to draw out their time together. He traced the lines of her face with his eyes before falling into hers just long enough to get his fix without the impression of staring. She didn’t protest. He’d heard an old proverb once upon a time that said the eyes were the window to the soul and he knew in that moment that it must be true. She had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen in his life. The orange pseudo-fireplace across the room cast an amber glow that accented the soft, acoustic background music perfectly.

The world outside had taken on a nasty gray film that weighed everything down and made everything blurry. As he lay there in the gutter, Horatio couldn’t help but think of her. The streetlight overhead provided no warmth. His eyes ached in their sockets. Horatio wondered if he was sinking or if the puddle was expanding. Eventually it ceased to matter either way. He closed his eyes.

Stars Like Eyes and Dreams in Blue

Good morning!

My eyes flutter open of their own free will. The last thing I recall is blinking. Each time, my eyes stay closed a little longer bringing me a little closer to something I've forgotten; we've all forgotten.

Here I am. It's early. The grass seems metallic as the rising sunlight hits the morning dew. I'm standing alone in the silence. The beauty of the sunrise overwhelms me. Rays of light from the East pierce the clear blue sky like a volley of arrows. Yet there is peace.

Birds chirp off and on then off again. They're far away but they sound as sweet as the honeysuckle.

I stand at a crossroads. Someone is walking steadily towards me. By the grace of God, the stranger walks with the grace of only a woman. I realize that this is one of His greatest gifts to man; that she is so unlike him.

Blue is my favorite color. I see it everywhere and wear it around my soul. I can’t help myself.

The stranger approaches with patience before each step. I look to the sky again. Tears of joy streak my face though they are not my own.

I look down again and see the stranger once more. The tall, tall trees reach towards the sky and then, realizing their mistake, for each other, forming a grand corridor. The stranger saunters ever onward through the archway.

She walks onward; always onward. The trees pull apart for her, revealing the night sky. There are no stars but a brilliant light like I’ve never seen is just out of view.

The stranger pauses for a moment just in front of me. I meet her eyes and I fall in, losing myself for a long, long time. I am warm for the first time in a long time.

They radiate the deepest blue I’ve ever known. I feel it straight through to my core. I see everything from the top of the highest mountain and from the depths of the deepest ocean. I let myself go entirely limp. I float. Upstream or downstream I don’t know or care. I feel the sweetest relief and I relish it.

But then something or someone has grabbed me by the ankles. He or she or it is pulling me away. I panic. I try to scream but the only sound is the birds still chirping in the distance. I reach out desperately for a handhold but there is nothing.

I’m standing between the trees again. The stranger smiles at me for a moment before walking on past me. The trees come together again in her wake.

She’s not a stranger. I think about her often and wonder if she does the same. The comfort in those eyes is the same comfort in that voice; in her mere presence.

I’ve made a mistake. I try to turn around and call after her but the Earth has swallowed up my feet and I have no voice.

There’s so much I want to tell her! I see little things everyday that only make me think of you and wish you were here. I’ve met this girl who wanted to be friends but I can’t ever look at her without thinking of you.

She’s still smiling as she walks away, as if she can hear me. She’s always smiling.

Good morning!

My eyes flutter open of their own free will. I reach for the phone and the number dials itself. I sit up as I hear the rounded electronic trill in my ear. Once. Twice. Three times.

I notice the clock on the wall. It’s late enough to be early. It’s even earlier where she is.

“Hey! You’ve reached…”

Click

There’s always tomorrow.

A Suh-then Gennelmen

The mighty jaw crunched closed like Jason's Wandering Rocks. Hungry lips kissed themselves, parting with the moist pop of a suction cup coming off a frosty window.

"Bill, will you shut yo' dadgum mouth when you chew?!" he shouted down the length of the elegant table. "Makin' me sick! I sway-uh!"

Bill mumbled something through his mouthful of beans that Charles assumed was an apology.

Charles chuckled to himself, twirling the cold metal thoughtfully in his hands. In the crazy, ever-changing world he lived in, Charles knew that he could always be sure that Bill would never get above his raising. If it were any possible to get lower, well, then there might be cause for concern. But good ole Bill, raised by wolves or himself or maybe a far off king (depending on how creative Bill was feeling), was as steady and intelligent as a rock. His undying loyalty to Charles made him a perfect member of the household. Though it was an inadvertent result of Charles’s having once lapsed and shown a fleeting kindness to another soul, he’d never once regretted. Bill’s lacking table manners were insignificant next to the security that came with having such a behemoth around. Plus, though he would never admit it, being the gentleman that he was, Bill usually doubled as the evening’s entertainment.

As if on cue, a slight rumble emitted from the other end of the table. Bill lowered his hand from his mouth and smiled up at him like a small child. His face looked like a distorted reproduction of his plate five minutes ago. Charles couldn’t help but smile back like he imagined proud father might. Billy was learning.

Charles’s father, known throughout the region simply as Senior (even before his one and only son came along), had been a cold man. Charles had never known his mother. Growing up, he’d always heard stories about the delightful man his father had been before the cruel exchange and how immediate the change had been after.

Charles didn’t believe most of what he’d heard. The man he knew had kept his son and everyone else at arm’s length. Charles, who believed that his father somehow blamed him for his mother’s death and sometimes even joined him in this belief, had spent most of his youth at a boarding school far from home, learning all the skills and manners that had gotten him to where he was. He never had time to write to his father, who reciprocated the sentiment. Theirs was a strained relationship.

When a massive heart attack took his father late one afternoon, no one noticed until it was time for dinner almost 6 hours later. He’d been discovered in his study, his personal sanctuary where he was known to disappear for hours at a time. When he was over twenty minutes late for dinner, which he never missed for any reason, the blanket “Do Not Disturb” policy was broken. He’d been slumped over his desk with the last remains of Charles’s inheritance spilled out on the floor.

It’s been a very long time, thought Charles. Upon receiving news of his father’s death, Charles hadn’t even thought of shedding a tear. He immediately left school and came home to sell off his father’s estate and all of the baggage attached to it. He would use the money to finance his new life and a new business venture.

He’d discovered Bill rooting around in the woods at the edge of the vast property. After inviting him in for a warm meal, Charles had found a better business partner than he could possibly have hoped for. Bill’s superhuman size and strength always made negotiations much smoother.

There were voices at the front door. “Aw-right, Bill, ” he announced. “It’s showtime.”

They took their positions as the tumblers in the lock squeaked and popped. They should have tried the backdoor, thought Charles, laughing to himself. It’s open.

The door opened and the two unfamiliar faces were greeted by two unfamiliar faces, waiting for them eagerly in the foyer. The woman started to scream but Charles brought his gun out from his pocket and raised a finger to his lips. Her husband stood in front of her with his jaw hanging open.

Charles’s lines flowed naturally, as if he were saying them for the first time. “Good evening. If ya’ll could please have a seat and speak only when spoken to, then I think we can get this unfortunate ugliness over with rather quickly. Thank you for dinner, by the way. Bill, thank the nice folks.”

Bill stepped from the shadows and nodded with a grunt, pounding his monstrous left palm with the club in his right.

Beneath Your Window

The sweetest pillow my head hath known

Was little more than a humble stone

If only because twas lodged beneath your window

Though sleep resisted and my head did smart

It did wonders for my heart

If only because twas lodged beneath your window

I dreamt of you, my love, for quite some time

Safe, warm, and happy in my mind

Though a coat of frost grew across your window

Cold it was though I slept fine

Until I awoke around midnight

To find blue lights flashing bright upon your window

I swore there had been some mistake

But I felt my heart begin to break

I saw you crying through your upstairs window

You see, the last time that we met in court

I thought it was a joke of sorts

A lovers' game; to keep me from your window

You said you did not know my name

I said loved you just the same

Forever I would wait beneath your window

Yet here I sit in my tiny cell

Wondering if it's just as well

That metal bars encase my only window

Though my time in here may take it's toll

Before you know I'll be up for parole

And with any luck, they'll tell me that I can go

So please, my darling, save the date

I'll see you soon; in six to eight

Moonlit, we'll meet again beneath your window.

With love,

Larry