Patron Of The Dying Arts

Perfect hot white ceiling
giving back planetary anger
at persons and plants
making a griddle of the city’s
streetmap and challenging
those afoot to not drown
swallowed in their own sweat

Opera singer enters air conditioned
library cool and quiet
of a Tuesday just a few
unshelved pages flapping
like quiet applause a memory
from dozens of recitals
and an automatic response
self corrects her to proper
posture aligns her breathing
from her nose straight down
to her spinal root

Her low heels click uncarpeted
stone and the rainbow
of bindings seems a marvelous
mirage after outside’s over-
arching glare, she sniffs
the papery air and an aria
leaps into her mind

The song grows as only
geysers and singing can grow,
a humble upwelling explores
the vaulted stone and sturdy
glass pitches it back until
the glowing colatura is
safe within a concert hall
all vibrato and emotion,
dropping the sheaf
of newspaper subscription forms
she’d been hauling around
unsuccessful at selling
a single one and now
unworried by unemployment

A homeless man locked
in a lavatory sponging himself
with wads of paper towels
in the grimy handsink
pauses in his ablutions
to wonder if the day of reckoning
has come or perhaps
an alien invasion might explain
the inhuman noise flooding
through the vents that tugs
at his humanity – something
that he feels he should recognize –
before he shrugs and returns
to cleaning the urban dust
from his swollen ankles

The song goes on as long
as it must and no longer,
every day fades and dies,
paper and bones degrade
to powder and scatter back
to base elements to make new things
buildings are torn down or crumble
and new life arises which people
never imagined completely

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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