O

O, the pitter patter of your heart,
which drips softly to the floor
the stale blood, oxidized and cold,
pounding to find the rhythmic enchantment
of the Sirens' song, painful and imploring,
wistful and waning, pitter patter.

O, lonely lullaby of allure,
Rocking and cradling the ears
With harmonic lyrics and sound,
A gentle goodnight kiss
Upon the tear stained petal of a budding rose,
Soft, red, and ready to blossom

O, silently sitting in the smoky room,
To slumber in the shadows of dreams.

The Plight

Why even bother writing anymore? My words, not filled with dragons, sorcerers, or unicorns, slide off the page and hit the cement floor of which my inspiration comes. Lifeless are the letters in rigor mortis as the U's curves slowly straighten to the solitary I. The world is changing courses from meaningful writing to playful banter to a mixture, like flour and water, which is drenched down the esophagi of every human being. And perhaps the fantasy world I delve into daily is not nearly as interesting as the one another writer makes, but sorry if I cannot interest with in a subtle masterpiece.

The Hot Dog Vendor

I had my first encounter with a homeless man, who was obviously sitting on the sidewalk for at least a week without a shave or substantial meal. I felt bad for him, so I stopped to ask if he wanted a sandwich or something. He looked at me, pale white face covered in that thick curly beard, and nodded with approval. As we walked to the nearest Subway restaurant, he stopped me at a hot dog vendor and said, ¨I want a hot dog.¨ I looked at him, and looked at the hot dog water murky and with a moist profound odor. ¨Are you sure?¨ I asked him, and he said, ¨of course I am sure.¨ I looked at him, looked at the hot dog vendor and said, ¨Two hot dogs please.¨ He gladly took out two buns and plopped the two hot dogs dripping in water into the holders and handed them to me. ¨Thank you,¨ I muttered as I paid the man with a 10 dollar bill. The homeless man looked at me, as I passed the hot dogs down to him, wide-eyed and smiling. I received my change, left a tip to get rid of the coins, and walked down the park sidewalk with him. I asked him, ¨Why did you want hot dogs?¨ He responded...

¨In all honesty I do not want these hot dogs, in fact, I hate these hot dogs. They are worse than the dirt I normally eat. But every morning I wake up, and that guy always sets up his hot dog stand, and waits. His wife calls him from the hospital every day at least 4 times, telling him the condition of their son, who has cancer. He is going through treatment now. I know I am practically starving myself every day, but I am the only one in pain. I have no family, no children of my own to worry about. The only thing I have the worry about is if my time will come tomorrow, or next week and when my body will completely shut down. I always wanted someone to worry about. I worry about his son. It gives me a reason to live. I want to see his son make it through this, to battle through this.¨

I stared at him, confused as to how this man could think this way. I questioned him about his own life. He responded...

¨I know my life is important. But if the world was only about me and my problems, I would be the only one on this earth. Yet, I am not. That is why I know he is worth my worries. I am an educated man who man bad decisions in life, and I lost everything. I would never want to see another person lose anything if I could help them with any little thing I can. You are not the first person who offered me food and I thank you. But no matter how many times they offer me pizza, a sandwich or a steak dinner, I will always go to this hot dog vendor.¨

I looked at him for one more moment and began to cry.  He looked at me, confused and said,

"Please, do not cry if not for tears of joy.  The world is a beautiful place with beautiful people in it.  Get a chance to know them and help them out, a lot of people never show how much they really want someone to talk to, someone to listen to them, someone to hug, or someone's support."

I nodded, still drowning in my own tears, and invited him for dinner, but he declined.  I pleaded that he come but he still denied my invitation.  Late for work, I still attempted one last time for him to come, but he refused.  The next day he was no longer at the spot that I met him, and yet the hot dog vendor was there as usual.  I asked him about the homeless guy that was here the other day, and he shrugged unknowing of what happened.  I was upset, but I had no idea where he could have gone or what I could do to find him again.  I looked around, lost like a puppy, and looked back at the hot dog vendor.  I smiled and looked at where the homeless used to be and said, "two please."  From that day forward, I have bought a hot dog from him every day.

Acheron

There he lies,
mangled,
a twisted wire hanger
clutching to the doorknob
of his closet home,
grinning,
like a child winning
a tiny stuffed bear
from a carnival game,
cold,
a ship sinking
iceberg both ruthless
and frozen,
as bystanders point
all aghast,
gore paving the street
a dark crimson
and my eyes tear
a cascading poison
trickling across my lips
gasping
for life like a fish
out of water
as cold metal rings
clasp my ankles
pushed to cross
the river of blood
spilled out on the road,
seeing
everything gone behind me,
a barren land
of sand and clouds.