The Conduit

The man crouches on the rooftop and opens his mind and his mouth and takes in the spirit of the storm. He sends great globs of saliva into the wind. Cold and wet he waits, perched up top the Liberty building, unmoving. Gargoyle.

Moisture churns deep within the body. Wet rain slaps his skin. Painful numbness blackens the lips flesh and toe nails. Lightning flashes. The static makes momentary networks between the rain drops that hang frozen in mid air. Moisture in the air.

This is the brain of the storm. Lightning flashes. The higher ups try to communicate down. “Can you hear?”

“I hear,” breathes the man.  Sleep is unnecessary. God has arrived. The man is equal to the task at hand and puts his life into the storm. He submits.

Prepared for the future the man is open. Playing the gargoyle conduit in the evening storm is the best pleasure the man has known. The weather owns him, and the man is open.

When the storm abides the man retreats to the page where he scribbles late into the morning. Sleep is unnecessary. God has arrived. The man is equal to the task at hand and puts his life into the work. “Here is life,” he thinks, preparing the page. The man plays conduit.

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Cossack

Taking off his winter cossack 

The Russian ordered blood soup and vodka 

He turned his pale eyes to the woman by the door 

Daughter of a distant land and hoped she was a whore 

With onion breath the fat bar man 

Broke into an old folk song 

And the Frenchman by the kitchen door 

Cried for beer pour me more! 

I paid my bill and took a walk 

Around and down the spiral stair 

To a smokey room where Poles played cards 

And spoke of wars Quietly – for the Russian man upstairs

I took a hand and antied in 

And asked the men of God and sin 

Every man and each alone 

Believed in his immortal soul 

Above us shook the wooden floor 

Dust fell and the Frenchman called still pour me more! 

It sounded like the barman danced, drunk at last, 

And a shot rang out but nothing we said 

For we were all good godly men