Calyx

It surprised him

a tree trunk  grey

the size around of a 55 gallon drum

cut-off waist high                                                                                                    

its bark had long-since rotted away or was eaten by famished insects and left

with wormy striations running vertically its height and about its girdle

sharply etched

nearly half-inch increments

walking up on it

he peered  down  inside it

it was rendered a calyx  a bowl with a tall rasp like a fragile starched collar

that crumbled only in a couple three places

not wide or deep rents

it was ossified

there were no discernable spiderwebs or life in its bowl

and taking it in

it appeared a cauldron

waiting only rainwater meat and vegetables to make a greasy feast

the black earth around it  looked burnt

Where  where were the witches and hags  the dismembered children  the throngs of bedeviled

sycophants  their succubus and incubus

or would they erupt out the earth when the forest grew dark

he began to back out of the clearing surrounding it   very slowly 

and as he went  he realised it comported very nearly to the size of its vanquished crown

nothing  grew inside this clearing

the young saplings at its edge stood like flays of whips

elastic 

groping like blind tentacles

he did not turn his back on it until he could no longer see it for the rise of earth the weeds and trees between them

and now beyond it

he felt  oddly  as if he escaped some thing

overhead  as dusk descended  the shadows of black fowls roosted among snapping sounds

began flailing

he turned and ran madly  not hazarding a wild glance over his shoulder

and broke sweat in the cold ethereal air

then a sudden breeze  a sour misty vapour reeked past him

as if the corrupt tree behind him had inhaled 

had sucked it

and somewhere beyond him

a husky owl cried

it was an elderly owl

and wise

who did not enter into the woods from where he emerged

he wondered  awed
had he stayed 
would he have become

Lost  Unfortunate

1809,   Saturday,   2  7. 11

On overcast days

those threatening rain or snow

when outdoors     

                          birds tossed seeds into the gangway between his red brick

apartment building and the one next door

                                                                      he could hear them  finally  through

the doublehung casement window in his bedroom   sprung wide open

when  after considerable time and expense he had revived it

stripping it  sanding  varnishing  resealing it

after  for a very long time  it had been efficiently painted shut by either lazy tenants or

ignorant management

its innermost coats lead based paints

he repaired the sashes weight-and-pulleys  re-corded them

choked on their dust (possibly dead mould)

and laughed at the news on wadded old newspapers stuffed into their cracks                           

he did not improve upon them

he restuffed them with thrown away crass tabloids one usually found on leering racks

when exiting drugstore check-out lanes

what was it called

Pay-It-Forward  perhaps

perhaps  that was its correct vernacular which he somewhere sometime had overheard

pop culture was not his thing

current events were

and the pair were irrevocably dissimilar

neither ever inclined to inform the other

                                                                               the birds scratched and pecked

fluttered in the gangway under the dull lead sky

they seemed lethargic

they probably were not

it was probably the effects a good stagehand or lightingman might achieve

and if the birds were not as he surmised

                                                                  then the lighting was working its magic on him

and shadow puppets spawned  working their way into his eyes

flashing and matriculating on the screen pulled taut inside his head

                                                                                                               shadow puppets

a bit too precise  detailed

woefully too close to silhouettes of familiar precedents hed rather not see just now

or ever again

for good reason

he was prone to spirits and hauntings  who worried him with their visitations and

protest  who followed and besieged him  who had something to say or explain

whether he was interested or not

he was not

                    and in the hollow suspended above the gangway the birds turned delicately

into phantoms and souls that he sought to disregard

and they would not be

they were adamant   feral   lusting

even his clenched eyes could not stop their appearance

and they became his  even more than if he wont

he was fey 

 

they turned their screws  turned and turned them

turning their cog in this world

their slight shim

their toehold

  

their  perhaps  single aperture to be found in this fecund light

 

and try as he may he could not convince them he was too shabby for their purposes

he stood before a mirror and screamed LOOK!  I am emaciated  My withers  if I were a

horse  Id be horsemeat or glue

                                                   as surely most of them  by their renderings in his eyes

remembered strong and well-tended horses before horseless carriages

but he could not displease them

or discourage them

Then 

          early Morning

then   temporary Reprieve

                                            the birds disassembled and returned to their roosts

when the sky was coloured like bruised roses 

                                                                                                    

when his breathing and exhaustion heavy

and before falling asleep he thought

or maybe he prayed

maybe this day would be sunlit and hot and force the birds to the trees at the lake to

forage there

Mingle

and forget

                                                                                                                                      

he exist

2317,  Saturday,  1  11. 14