squeak

         he wasnt sure he heard anything

squeak

                                                                                       

                                                                                                                                         squeak

something        had to be something                             

                squeak

                      he stopped movingfroze exactly where he stood

to see if he could identify the sound where it came fromsounded         so near

so near

nothing

                  Akay then

he began wauksqueak heheld a filled hummingbird feeder time to slop the pigs they were sipping a gallon and a quart of sugarwater a day he called them hummingpigs unless you bought twentyfive pounds of sugar every ten days two weeks you might not believe it either they were pigs on wing

he lifted the quart feeder to his face   it hung from a bent brass clotheshanger he fashioned to hold it  its tongue hooked under a wire latch that was fitted in between two reversed us in the wire wrap that wound under the glass lip made to suspend the inverted bottle by

it was three years old hed hung it for three years this was the first time it ever protested

he took a couple of steps across the redwood porch towards the near fenceline where he hung the feeders   and listened

squeak

whawas the squeaking about

he stopped utterly engrossed in this smallest sound THEN AN ENORMOUS CRASH splintered wood sheared
a small aircraft sliding past him sideways its cowl its blade chewing up spitting gravel clay its aluminum-alloy skin shredding blind rivets popping like .22 rounds whistling past him the plane now spinning clockwise breaking up flames smoke the feeder in his hand shattered spattered by sugarwater plane parts strewing its bulk descending the hill out of sight AN EXPLOSION BALL OF FIRE

BLACK SMOKE RISING

he stomped his feet on the porch   no pain turned his head side to side no pain jigged his shoulders up and down
no pain looked down at his chest arms legs no blood

no blood on the redwood

no shock

             amazed

then just above the volume of the squeak he uttered dully    Not  sumtin  yasee  everday

                                                                                                                                              0024,  Saturday,  21  11. 15

a clutch of silver keys hung down out of the lock above a round silver doorknob 

 

                                                                                                                                                     their silver is

clean   bright   immaculate   as if never bearing the smudge or oil of human hands

they seem content

as content as most inanimate things appear  unconcerned  unperturbed  unperplexed  virtually untroubled 

like the smooth brow of a babe

 

and each key has its responsibility to unlock or free that thing they were separate of but made for as human beings are often to other human beings those true keys unlocking that which is locked away from others seen every day but failed to be recognised their intricate workings their tumblers exquisitely turning wanted terribly  then  like the sun the warmth of a new day spreading through them a passion turned On   if On was right to ascribe to it 

On

Fulfilled

Enmeshed

almost the satisfying machinery of fluidsex   the slick oil            desire

we  unthinkingly  unknowingly  either offer or provide that thing that poets write of  painters capture in their watercolors oils acrylics  that sculptors hew from coldstone  coldmetal  livedlined wood

causticly taken for granted

until the key is lost or dead   the locks rust     unpenetrated     unturned

                                                                                                                                                      their silver is

clean   bright   immaculate   against the heavy black steel security screen door 

it is open a third wide

 

a white painted door beyond it is closed

a wind picks up

under its breath a dwarf orange tree in a large glazed ceramicpot beside the doors moves lazily          hauntingly

its leaves spangle their slivered shadows on the keen edge of the security door the dull white face of the front door

the keys hung in the door once leaden and heavy and hanging straight down begin to flutter like a chain of white honeysuckle or pale lilac flowers mutate under the wind become petals lax then curl fall to the threshold gathering

like brittle shavings or clots of ash

their lives sucked away

only one key remains

stiff in the lock

                        undisturbed    unmutated

the steel door creaks

  

  

1040,  Thursday,  19  11. 15

1319,  Friday,  20  11. 15

dreamt

Yellow-bellied too?

All these terrible challenges facing America:  Syrian refugees  Muslims  Islam

he was anxious to hear the Rights solutions(he had a bet with himself) and damn if he didnt have to wait long for them to regurgitate his bet

if it worked during World War II   why not now

Internment Camps

Inmates would learn to adapt and survive in their proscribed circumstances   and if they didnt know what was good for them  --  as we obviously did  --  we could go Gazan on them

 

tho  so enthralled

                              they might incarcerate the Secular too

or Americans could affirm that the price of being free incurs certain risks

and we have endured

in the meanwhile names are being affixed to their noxious solutions

he certainly had his

                                        but none could be called Leadership

2212,  Day-between-Two-Ts,  18  11. 15

Postscript: a brief history lesson  lest one forget  On 10 August President Ronald Reagan signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988 

 

http://www.civics-online.org/library/formatted/texts/civilact1988.html 

http://encyclopedia.densho.org/Civil_Liberties_Act_of_1988/