Mag 156 In Limbo

Wind of History by Jacek Yerka

 

The Mardi Gras

left residuals

loose change

loosed chains 

flood damaged futures

accelerated to ditch

 the ancestral domicile

awash to save

Grandma's

Turkey a la King

with dumplings

  while Gramdpa widdled the hours

 to the  right-hand side

of Westminister Chimes

in tattletale pieces

the rattlesnakes

gathered round

the broken table

strewn so piece-maille

strung like-confetti

weighing them down in the mire

once

all of them

perished the cherished newspaper

gossip by ragtime

windows aglowed by distant spark

hunting ghost-like apparitions

residual memory fields

vastly over-rated subterrean life 

never quite not salubrious

callous proof-readers with offers

coffers pro-offered to the barebones

slimy grind

heaped forgotten mattresses

metres high across the gloom 

brandishing tire iron-maidens

stillness

became

her

as the burning man brand

ignited latent passions

so as She kept silent

in the cubby by the keeping room

waiting to open the door of perception

once and for all

all for one

she swept the place

halls of  bad luck and slack with preamble

and now without prerequisite halos

She prayed for repartration

or at least a partition

a part to play please said She

addendum; the folcrum car

is stuck and causing

scattering of papers to and fro

no rhyme nor reason here

in Limbo

sterling silver flung

clear across the vestibular credenza

crescendo of broken crystal

She hung onto the hope that dead pictures

could rebirth themselves

horse-hair saddlers

barely there to rein 

black and white salve-like

histoical places

across the parish

of petal-pushers

 

She who was once wee Page

was on the same page

as the scallywags

hags from hell

flung by fury

here

to recover only brine

quickly to quiet rectory

turn over a slimy gold leaf

donner party quit

the bellyaching

earlier then on time

so soon Scalped Tickets had parted ways

She tired of the costant headhunting

pasted glittery masks on bloated faces

as Mississippi Stearmers had unglued them

at Inn on The Muddy Waters

breakfast in bed at 7 a.m. to 10 a.m.

no sir, no cover charge

after ten years of tear-gas stains

O' the Mural'd Walls!

in the dull anti-chambered hallway

going nowhere fast and then

 the new order of the day

bring on the hay

 

Chiccoreal

 

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