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
Bedraggled
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
U.S.A.
E-Mail will806095@bellsouth.net
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 will806095@bellsouth.net.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
Website- Horrorrush.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
