©Moronic Ox Literary Journal - Escape Media Publishers / Open Books
The Poetry of Mitchell Waldman
"Blueprints to Black", "American Cheese on Wonder Bread", "Snow"
Blueprints to Black
Newspapers blowing in the streets
sticking to granite walls matchstick corpses piled naked in a pit blueprints to Crematoria # 1, 2, 3 and 4 signed, stamped, and filed letters imploring supervisors to work faster get the job done invoking laws of supply and demand there are deadlines and budgets to meet
and finally, done!-- the architect and engineer smile, greet each other by the water cooler for a paper cup toast, and shake each others hands. A charcoal gray sky rain falling lazily in cold fat droplets steady, unceasing like the transports the constant squeal of infants shoes of all sizes lined neatly on the racks eyeglasses stored in great boxes hair like hay rolled and bound
proud trademark on the oven makers' kiln
a faceless soldier bent over at the sight counting bodies then failing falling to the ground hand over his eyes crying silent tears. Cold night lying alone on a mattress not a sound but the refrigerator's hum the rain dripping against the window pane the distant wail of a freight train and the echo of an infant, a sea of infants wailing-- it will yet be night it will yet be night.
American Cheese on Wonder Bread
don’t dirty the sheets
songs of a third eye
sticky fog remembrance
of the way things used to be
rag doll with one arm hanging by a thread
a child’s shell-shocked look and tears
ghost of horror flick screams
the way she stood looking at him
hands on hips
shaking her head
flies buzzing around the garbage cans
dim sickle of a moon
in the corner of the cloudy eye sky
as he walked down the steps
trees bowing their naked limbs
tomato unpicked left over, rotted on the vine
newspaper crushed, rolling down the street
sunless sky with bur of icy winds
about two foot three
beer cans for friends
American cheese on Wonder Bread
hold the mayo
surrounded by hollow voices
in a panic
looking for the arm of the doll
that fell off.
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Every day there were
more and more reports
that the snow was coming.
And he would wait
propped by his window
searching for the first
crystal flakes of winter.
Locked in his room
he was impatient in his waiting--
with walnut cane
he would hobble through the streets
on rickety legs,
down to the diner
for his daily soup.
And then he'd walk back
as if his life were a clock
the streets a still life
of man with cane
in a world no longer his.
His eyes would meet no one's
only sweep past the rushing
flash of a coat or dress or boot.
Creeping back through the silence
back through the musty hallway
back to his room
feebly rubbing his hands by the stove
huddling in a blanket by the window
he would sit,
waiting for the snow.
in the clouds of grace
while down below,
the rest of us carry umbrellas
waiting for the endless skies of gray to clear.
Kindle is Super...
but you don't need one
to buy & read
About the Author
Mitchell Waldman is the author of the short story collection, Petty Offenses and Crimes of the Heart (Wind Publications, August, 2011), and the novel, A Face in the Moon. His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in numerous publications, online and off, including The Fringe Magazine, Waterhouse Review, The Big Stupid Review, Troubadour 21, eFiction Magazine, Milk Sugar, Pulse Literary Journal, Litsnack, Red Fez, The Houston Literary Review, Wind Magazine, The Piker Press, trans lit, New Aesthetic, Wilderness House Literary Journal, Eclectic Flash, The Battered Suitcase, and HazMat Review. Waldman also serves as Fiction Editor for Blue Lake Review. http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com