Tuesday, May 27, 2008


Remembering a poem she once wrote.

There are ghosts in the sunshine beading down upon her face,
Whispering spirits brushing against her lips trying to get her to sing,
Her eyes are open to her own death,
Laying in the grass tasting her own breath,
Nothing tastes as fine as saying just what you mean,

The building houses The Teriyaki Club publishing company. The first floor is the P.R. offices, up one and you find the management cubes, up two and there is the art department slaving away, the fourth floor is overloaded with lawyers, and on the top floor are the in-house writers...ok, they have two in house writers and the rest of the space on the fifth floor is crowded with storage boxes but really, what need does a publisher have with writers?
The roof of the building is flat with pebbles all over its surface of tar and metal, two inches thick with pebbles like the bottom of a goldfish's world.
Her boots make the pebbles almost crackle against each other as she walks from end to end, corner to corner, trying to cover the pebbles with the last drops of gas from her truck.
Standing on the edge of the roof she sets off two Zippos. As she steps forward she tosses both of them over her shoulders and as she drifts down onto the fifth floor fire escape the gasoline screams out into the night.
During the trip down the fire escapes which safe haven each floor she knows she now is the storyteller she always wanted to be.
And to the images of the frightened fleeing the building walked out of an alleyway the image of his dream dying. She walked across the street and leaned against the outside of an Army recruitment center.
A character description from the top down as she watches the fire explode in anger as it hits each floor is ear length pink and white hair, skin as white as light, dollar store sunglasses, a black short sleeved shirt covered by a dark brown vest, tattoos of prayers that do down each arm, long nails painted dark blue, black jeans, and black used combat boots.
Here comes the storyteller, the firestarter, the reaper of words. For those with dreams she is the unwanted faith. For those of despair she will turn her head because no martyr will she be to your causes. In time you will call hatred in her face, call hack with shards of glass, and get confused by her rejection of the station. No poet or folksinger, no rock star opera singer, no breast feeding mouth horse will be safe from an interrupted badge. Through extreme teens and devil pockets the fires and stories will burn on.
She leans herself off of the death dealer's wall and turns and walks down the street remembering a poem she wrote.

She rises from the grassy moisture,
She stands on her feet,
She looks into the sky and sees the smokes blackness taking over,
She slowly weeps,
Turning down her eyes she see a pawn walking in opposite of being told,
She is inspired now to be bold,

(C)brian c. williams

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i did a little research after you told me about your "thing", and if you want a way to make more money using your your blog you can enter this site: link. bye.