Thursday, April 12, 2012

The Meat Wagon
A reckoning in intimate mixtures, the meat wagon in hurried transport. The bluster of the students demeanor was in the realms of foresight, a chance in visions of climate. He watched the wild tempest snowflake envelope the meat wagon and its contents. He was determined with a christened expectation. The Meat wagon revolt he thought. A secret world of immanent decay and dark conveyance. The meat wagon proposed the final adventure in the folly of life’s pretense.
It was a home habited by the unsettling press of mystery and distant horizons. An apocalyptic renaissance in savannahs of icy cold, crystal parley in a season of passing.
Shuddering, he watched from a distance as the meat wagon negotiated snow drifts and a sheen of clear ice. Slippery, drunken and cold it was balanced by infinite insight. A tutor in the school of persuasive misty voyage. It was interposed between the primordial vestiges of day and twilight, certainty and ethereal vapors of division. A measure of power for a measure of everlasting hullabaloo. He watched as the meat wagon pretended animate fantasy for an ambush of bartered inventory.
The meat wagon, fickle ghostly and foreboding in lost junctures of mortality promising the undefined revolution of spirits in transit.
Ron Koppelberger
The ornament of a mixed blessing both freed him and proposed distinctions of dogged gloom. He took all things together and in a backward glance. Folly, passion and gullibility made him at home in the river of human existence. Subjugated by the demons of everyday life he had hired the four winds and chance. A homeless homage to the nomadic absolutes of vigor and shadow filled him and he pushed forward to the next moment.
He lay in the midst of a wavering field of saffron gold; his stomach grumbled and the heavens replied in the distant horizon with a touch of thunder. He was put together at one with god and the angels, a hodgepodge of unchained chance and quivering expectation.
Fireflies danced in the cool midnight air and a gentle white glow shone on the horizon to the west. It was an umbrage in perfect calm and sainted innocence. He smelled the odor of damp soil and green fresh burnish, a field of saffron and wheat ambition and whimsy. He was Tattered, tired, thrashed by the journey yet enlivened by freedom and homeless abandon. The dream directed him as it had many others before him. The city without sin, he would find it in the spoils of freedom. The clearing was a mile in the distance and the speed of sound seemed faster as the circle of bloodthirsty celebrants sold wicked satisfactions to the scattering of stones in the distance, the place bordered by saffron and wheat. He saw them clearly, they would surely kill him if they were to see him in the deep shadows, nevertheless he watched them as they sang and chanted incantations of dark desire.
Provisions of nourishment kept him safe and hidden, bound discipleship in gods vista, it was a place to sleep and dream. Tomorrow he would navigate the furrowed rows of saffron, careful to avoid the clearing of stones and blood sacrifice. For now he was free and his will to follow course, the tide of fate, would see him through.
Ron Koppelberger
A Distinction in Ribbons
The veracity of forbidden shame and science, the exception in incomprehensible sin and ownership was in the nature of his seizure. The soil turned dark with the confetti, the ribbon of nourishment, he neglected the bouquet of flowers in the taste of wine. Straight dope, he thought. Slow due to a ribbon of distinct expression.
He rooted and drank, imitating the renown of dogs and doom. He rooted and the totem pole peered in eminent design, in esteem of the ancients and the sleepy name of harvest perfect. He clawed at the ribbon and lunatic circles of rage descended unto the child of lot. A rendezvous with soul, an equity in Champaign and spit, the majesty of the ribbon was in the coil of its charge. The ribbon of wine endeavored to crowd the essence of his morrow with the ancient drama and the stain of a dispassionate secret, the secret proof of his indulgence, blood And wine, whiskey tumblers in etched glass. He stared at the ribbon of blood and laughed in resigned accord, a sip, just a sip for the rain and the summer moon.
Ron Koppelberger
The Outline of Midnight
Rather than the fretting sense of dust and strange charge, charge in procedure, charge in midnight sandwiches and pregnant moments in sweet clover, in bursting pinnacles in flow, Clay found the hodgepodge of seconds before midnight to be a whispering contention of inspiration and flittering possession. He chanced paths of delirium for the outline of midnight, he dreamed the oblique yield of Eden, at close gatherings of eternity and grace, he dreamed of day by day essentials in shadow of anything triumphing the space between today and tomorrow.
Clay worshiped the plenty of what would be, the enduring turn of fulfilling skyward advance. The outline of midnight appeared and in mists of gossamer Sabbath, paused, inhaled and suspiring a blessed sundog revolution. The revolution in angel laters and eyes of fire, the revolution of Saffron gild and wheat wills, in grace of forever. The sustenance in revolutions outline. Clay pondered and sighed near the edge of the fray.
Ron Koppelberger
The Barbed Wonder Tool
The highway unfurled in long diffuse spider legged array; Sonnated Bluff on the left, boor gossip on the right, Passionate will behind and wanting success to the front, Mecum Dash snuffed in miserable exclamation, “Onward and up Tonto, onward and up!”
The dusty shroud of air lay like an itchy wheezy cloak around the car and in irritating invasive measure. Mecum sneezed into the brown paper napkin and his cupped palm. Recycled paper, the napkin was rough against his nose and the constant sneezing had chaffed his tender flesh. “Damn!” he whispered as the road revealed a clapboard town dressed in ancient dust and shabby goldenrod shoots.
He parked the car in the street next to the tangled remains of a wire mesh fence. The fuss about what I can give you and yours is a pretty penny in perfect dollops of bliss he thought in practice for his sales speech.
Mecum had been a traveling salesman with the Better Barrens Company for the past twenty years. He had seen his share of towns and sold everything from Silly Putty to Bee Pollen, from confetti bombs to firecrackers, From sunglasses to charms declaring the potency of tiger eye. Mecum had sold most everything and The Barbed Wonder Tool. It was used for removing stray threads on sweaters as well as fixing the shine on polyester pants. The tool was just another mode of transit.
The door was chipped green and white paint, it simply read “SUAVE”. Mecum squinted at the lettering “Suave.” he said aloud. “SUUUUUAAAAAAVVVVVVEEEEE!” he rolled across his tongue. The paint cracked and bits of white flake fell to the concrete sidewalk. The door gave a hollow retort as he knocked again. Mecum sighed and tried the knob. The door slid inward in an easy arc as he pushed against the knob. There was a routine moment of expectation as Mecum peered into the shadows of the house. A Christmas ornament lay worn and ancient on the floor in front of him. He tapped it with the tip of his shoe. The ornament rolled a little revealing a clean patch on the dusty floor. Advancing cautiously inward he stepped inside and surveyed the cobwebs and ancient fur tree. The tree4 was in the center of the room, brown, lifeless with needles piled about the base. The air was hazy and tendrils of light shone through the aged cracked blinds. ’Anyone home?” he called out. In delicate steps he tiptoed across the room to the beige recliner that faced the door. Mecum paused for an instant before sitting in the chair. “Perfect,” he muttered “perfect.” The basket next to the recliner was full of wadded up paper. Mecum grabbed and unfolded one of the paper balls. It had one word scrawled across it “SUAVE.” He unfolded another piece, “SUAVE.” again. The solace of the chair was worth a rest and in weary compliance Mecum nodded off.
There were roaming wilds of wheat bloom and glowing saffron vistas that waved and called to him from beyond the granite boulder. “Sweet wheat and saffron Eden he thought. The stones were in an essential bone dust dry dead circle of ancient gray. A cross lay near the center of the circle and written on one of the stones in scarlet was a single word, “SUAVE”. the garden fascinated the real will of his desires, his soul and the substance of his grit. Mecum left the circle of granite and gray as he tempted the saffron to his pleasure.
Mecum woke from his dream and in consumed acquiescent rebirth found the will to leave “SUAVE”. The pulse of a new day he thought as he stepped through the doorway into the sunshine.
Ron Koppelberger
4192 Acorn Ave.
Bunnell, Fl. 32110
Ph: 386-4379118
Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 103 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has been published in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, India, Mauritius, Italy, France, Germany, China, Spain and Thailand. He has been Published in The Stray Branch, The Fringe, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette) Static Movement, Necrology Shorts and Record Magazine. He is a member of The Poet’s society, The Fiction Guild as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under
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Sincerely Yours