the old house speaks to the sunset
a hidden pipe leaks momentous secrets
blackwater tears dripping emotions
eccentric histories from a time long gone
a time of electric ambition and magnificent failures
a faulty house off the grid set back from any road
a lone man raises an obscure weathered flag at night
a man born then but alive now
caged in a matter-of-fact form that amused him
his internal dialogue marched thoughts backward
to a time when the city bustled and dreams burned
in upward incendiary octaves of fire
sounding off the authentic passions
that men died for
when new alloys were forged
from incessant attacks of belief
where flocks of birds centered their dizzying heights
on an unfathomable trail
abandoning secular hope
and carving the way like hieroglyphic snakes
roving an undercurrent to the spirit fuse
this set certain beings apart from the crusted hearsay
and nebulous small-talk bubbling in the morass of ordinary men
a conflagration of pitiless ideals soon built cover
oil, diamonds, coal, gold were discovered and hideously sought
fostering derricks to mine the fantasy hopes of man
and it was not long before the idols of the clocktower blessed the day
and women opened up with clandestine ointments
creating a petting zoo of zealots encouraging their demise
new and fertile oils were born
men triumphed their way through oil slicks
and jagged mining camps discovering new uses
for the substances of their failed efforts
then… inside a sullen hour of the day
time declared his birth
and now it is only a man sitting on a porch
watching the threads of his flag fringe
the house
a layered frontice with wrap-around histories
letting light in for the first time
while truth meandered back into the house
settling into dust on the pages of a book
while he is alive now waiting
and watching
and sitting
and listening to the drip drip drip…
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