Sleep Diorama

He was awake anyway, no stranger to three a.m. sleeplessness, so the knock on his door didn’t upset him. Later, he didn’t really recall finding the shoebox with four tiny yellow chicks snuggled in it, the box was just in his hands, four innocent lives, in his hands.

But he was so tired. Almost deliriously tired.

With no idea what to do, no idea what he was doing, he constructed a small compound on his bedside table. He turned the shoebox on its side to make one wall and a snug place for the chicks to hide in, with a soft hand towel to keep them warm. The lid of the box, a lamp base and the bedroom wall completed the stockade. He wanted the chicks to be safe, but he also needed to sleep. He gave them food and water, bread soaked in milk, he didn’t know why, they seemed to like it. And they seemed to like him. They chirped quietly and looked up at him with complete trust.

He would have liked them too, all fluffy and cute and wonderful, but he was so, so tired. 

They seemed to like the true crime podcast he played quietly to help him get to sleep. They left the warm shelter of the shoebox and gathered around the phone, happily muttering back to the tales of murder and bloodshed, as, for the first time in a week, their pure, innocent voices lulled him into peaceful, generous sleep.

When he awoke the chicks were gone. The shoebox was gone. No sign of them remained. 

It didn’t make sense.

He rose, made coffee, ventured out onto his balcony to sit in the sun. In his heart he hoped those baby chicks were happy, being kind to each other, eating well and living loving and peaceful lives, even if they weren’t real.

Coming back inside he noticed, then brushed away, one tiny yellow feather, shrugged, shrugged again, then headed for the shower to begin a new day. 

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Trump - Their King’s Touch

 

He’s a pig eyed, ham headed brute

Shoehorned into a cartoon character suit

Long phallic tie,

A compensatory lie, 

A ham fisted, 

Ham acting

King 

Of the MAGA sty.

Over seventy million Americans 

Will make their mark 

Beside his trademark, fooled twice, 

The mark of the mark, 

Blood in the water 

For this dead eyed shark.

The high priest of grievance, 

An unholy allegiance 

With the peddlers of bastardised faith,

Driving the greed machine 

Crashing through the Anthropocene,

A fossil fuelled end of days wraith

More a symptom than a man

The phlegm of the infection

Pick your forced card, 

Call it divine intervention.

And over seventy million Americans 

Will make their mark beside his name

Bluffed by his fortune

Aroused by his fame

Outsource their bullying

Let him take the blame 

Averting their eyes

From their emperor’s naked shame.

The marks and their con

The gang and their don

The red capped, red pilled 

Red white and gammon

A nation creating itself in the image of Elvis

A nation 

A casino

The wager of Job

A nation

A fiasco

The dealer is the mob

And over seventy million Americans 

Will make their mark 

Beside his trademark, 

Believing 

Their King’s touch

Will cure them 

Of what ails them.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Violin Holy

From a photograph by Kris Reichl

 At four years old, he doesn't possess the words to tell himself what he is seeing. He is old enough to know that no one he knows can see what he sees. 

Sitting alone away from the fire, he watches the old man playing violin. He can see the essence of the man, the bones and heart of him. The boy's dark eyes can see the internal structure of the violin too, how the timber and shape conspire to create beautiful sound. He knows that once he gains the manual dexterity of an adult, he will be able to build the perfect violin.

That's not all he sees. As he stares at the fire, he can see his own life, to the point of his death.

For two years now, since the first time he touched a woman's belly and said, “baby”, women from all over have been brought to him to discern pregnancy. He has learned to create a performance, lay on hands and hum to himself, so everyone feels comfortable. But he can see it, feel it the first time he lays eyes on the woman. He knows that in the future he will have to hide this, and every other vision he possesses, pretend to grow out of this magic state. What is wonderful in a boy is unnerving in a man. 

He already knows that he will live a solitary life, that the only way he will be able to express the essence he sees will be through music. He will travel and play violin.

The way he plays will enchant and disturb people. His talent will be welcome, his essential truth less so. He will teach those who come to him, try to give his gift to the few who will comprehend. Eventually, he will retire to a workshop and build violins. His violins will contain everything he has seen, everything he knows.

His instruments being played around the world will, for a moment, connect people to something they yearn for.

The boy stares at the fire, then at the old man playing violin. At four years old, he already knows that the path of a holy man won't be easy, that it will take millions like him, over thousands of years, to leave behind enough beauty for everyone to begin to understand.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

We Are The Flying Boys

 "Mama always told me not to look into sights of the sun,

Oh but Mama, that's where the fun is."

Springsteen

You've seen us soaring above, wondered if you could ever join us. Our name is a parental caution, making us more delicious. Some say all we do is fly around all day and all night, but if you could fly, what would you do?

Unlike Peter Pan and his effete cohorts we know we will grow old, so every day we fly higher, try to touch the sun. Those who succeed die young and gorgeous, plummet tremendously, powerfully. For the rest, we know one day we will be too old and weak to fly, there will be a time to walk the earth again.

Of course we are afraid. Being a Flying Boy is against all the laws of nature, and nature will track down and kill her outlaws. Facing fear with style is what makes us beautiful.

We are few. If we didn't exist someone would invent us. We are living dreams.

We are the Flying Boys.

Parkstreet 

Ko-Fi 

Grey, From The Last War

 The great general removed his hat, placed it on the head of his sergeant. The great general wrapped his famous coat, grey, from the last war, not blue like the current ones, around the shoulders of his bewildered subordinate. 

“Today, you will inspect the parade. Let us see who is paying attention.”

The sergeant was accustomed to the quirks of the general, knew better than to argue. He gratefully accepted three large swigs of good brandy, to give him the swagger of a great general, stepped out to impersonate one.

The great general heard the call to attention. He heard two cracks from a sniper's rifle. He heard the scattering of the men. His intelligence had been sound.

He knew there was a spy in his camp, that the enemy knew he was there. He also knew the enemy were low on ammunition, unable to mount a serious attack, in the same circumstances he would have sent a sniper on a suicide mission to kill a figurehead general too. He knew the soldiers would have smelled the liquor on the breath of his sergeant, the episode would be written up as a drunken prank. He'd thought of everything.

Once the turmoil calmed the great general walked out onto the makeshift parade ground. He'd hoped by placing his coat over the shoulders of his dupe it might fall free, but the fool had wrapped it around himself. The coat was blood soaked and ruined.

Of course he had thought of this possibility too, and asked his wife to send a replacement a couple of days before. Grey, from the last war, not blue.

He looked down at the body of his sergeant. 

“You won't brag about beating me at chess again.”

Parkstreet 

Ko-Fi