To All of You

You don't know what life does to your heart.
Breaks it. Like crystal on hard ground.

You don't know what life does to your heart.
Breaks it. Like strung out Puerto Rican kids on a New York street.

You don't know what life does to your heart.
Breaks it. Like a steel tower crumbling. Like Kubrick's ape man beating a human soul.

Time Past

For ten years I've been covered in dust.
For a decade a grey smoke has burned my eyes.
I've never strayed past the early morning light.
How would I know?

Sounds

I've heard spirit songs rise from the wells of hope.
I've heard helpless cries from endless caves.
I'm deaf sometimes, but for sounds of a lonely God.
I hear what I can't see, the music of a summer rain.

Don't sing from a bottomless well.
I can't see in this endless cave.
I only hear when I'm blind.
Don't cry for me, for you. For sight or sound.

Leave of Absence Broken Early

I've seen shore-leave sailors explode into violence. I've seen merchant marines beat down one-eyed mad men for dollar clips and silver dreams. I've seen the swagger of cops. Their bloody billy clubs break watermelon skulls on hot city streets. I've seen hippies at the edge of ruin. The swirl of peace and love in the psychedelia of bad trips past. I've seen too much, like babbling holy men go wild with godless rage. I close my eyes in fleeting blindness, but my mind still sees, the heart still beats, the life stories of others get told.

Leave of Absence and Future Considerations

Ed's Note: The Square Corner has decided to take a short leave of absence in order to dedicate more time to serious writing. He plans to use the blog as a vehicle to present his first short story. This comes after some serious thought. He believes the four or five simultaneous blogs buzzing inside his head interfere with his increasingly stubborn goal to get published. Come back in a week or two and see what he's rendered.

SC

To...

To hell with it all. To hell with the Ghost of Charles Bukowski. To hell with Tortelli. To hell with Zigman Zibanski and the mendicant Boyce Boswell. To hell with it all. Posing, prosing like Ginsberg, as feeble attempt as it is. There's more: the incontinent devil in haemorrhoid rage from a$$ crack burning in sulfate flame. There's more: the hellish hep cat in imitative prose and bellied fur balls curled up in bewitched corners of the mind. Nah, to hell with it. Hear me, to hell with this and that and two fingered posting on one-eyed keyboards. Blogger's lament. Characters created and foiled. Unread. Treated to anonymity on a landless highway stitched on a devil's tail. To hell with it for now. Till I blog next. To a heaven's command. To a Ghost, to a Tortelli, to a ZZ and to words not seen.

An Angel in Redress

It feels like yesterday. It feels like troubled thoughts all over again. It feels like ropes of cast iron and sharp wire knotted around my neck. My shoulders bend. My back stretches and bows. Surely the strain can't last much longer. Or perhaps it can....Who's that buzzing at my door? A devil in red shoes? My prayers answered: An unkissed angel in camouflage and female khaki? I must, I must hold on. Tomorrow comes, I pray. Perhaps troubled thoughts no more. A sign in the window, maybe: Unkissed angel Gone. Camouflage and Female Khaki for sale.