Unto The Night

Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger

Monday, April 30, 2012

Fast and Sane

Ron Koppelberger
Fast and Sane
Eager desires in silent offerings bonded by agile loves
And gamboling ghosts, an exclamation reveling
Wild and wrought wanton by the will of what’s
Finished in sanguine wakeful arts, believed in by the
Birth of availing memory and wandering wishes flowing fast and
Sane, by the thankful tears of weeping reserve, redeemed secure
And secret in the still terrain of earthly dominion,
Tantalized in the fuss of pretence
                                                                      And dancing sighs.

Churchyard Dirt

Ron Koppelberger
Churchyard Dirt
Bewildered by the arcane wilds of telltale horizons, by
Deliriums in murky depths of churchyard dust and crumbling
Leagues of grinning masquerade, the lamenting shape
Of deepening dreams and whirling pirouettes in
Velvet and darkened silhouette, A coalescing brew of desolate
Secret hidden beneath the legend of strange soils and dire discovery,
An innate allure, for passage unto the gates of confederate ancients
And gossiping bones in boast of lives lived and moss accrued near the
Shady side of headstones and roses bought by the passions of the living, a sodden enclave, what tempts the souls of rebirth and denies the decay of old earth.

Defiant Eyes

Ron Koppelberger
Defiant Eyes
Tender purchase pulled in the need of a bleak moon
And a catastrophe in white, a frenzy of defiant eyes
And utopian utterances in passage unto the
Realm of bliss, love and sweet whispers of
Communion, an imbibed throng
                                                                      Of backcountry islands.

The Tranquilizer

Ron Koppelberger
The Tranquilizer
(How to make an angel)
The sweet freedom of sleep. Designed and kindred to rebirth. A mysterious shamble through fields of saffron and gold, sunshine and mist, he lay on the sane leather comfort of an overstuffed couch dreaming the dreams of angels and wild beasts, pilgrims and magic spray. He slept and the peril, the insistence of everyday living, passed him by in seconds, hours and years.
The sun repeated its suspirations, day to night, night to day. The moon watched in nonchalance as it waned in tides of swollen romance. He sported chance and sustenance, never aging, remaining forever young while the countryside went through revolutions of change. The house decayed and the couch became a mound of fertile earth, melding with the wheat bloom and saffron spells of sanctity. When he awoke a winged myth he was in possession of brilliance and the blessings of heaven.

A Damaged Shirt

Ron Koppelberger
A Damaged Shirt
The dry cleaner hung the damaged silk shirt neatly on one of the wooden hangers in the front window. The ceremonies of earnings and loss, profit and disaster were commonly regarded as a normal function of the dry cleaning business. A dollar earned, he thought as he surveyed the torn silk garment. Better to be humble in the face of damaged goods he thought. Mr. Favor was a Knit picker literally and he would be angry.
The stores loudspeakers played a pleasant cascade of classical music; he had turned the station from the rockin oldies to a classical channel with the expectation of Mr. Favors anger.
The dry cleaner kept busy arranging and hanging cloths up on paper and wooden hangers. He had quite a few customers but none were like Favor. As the hour drew near, the cleaner became nervous with a throbbing fear, a resonant ache in the pit of his stomach. Favor would arrive soon. He imagined his rebuke, “He could kill me.” he said in a shaky whisper. He could hear the second hand ticking on the big wall clock; had to be consoling he thought, calm and easy.
The clock read 1:59 P.M., only a minute away, Favor was always punctual. The cleaner read the blue neon sign beneath the clock,
“NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR
DAMAGED GOODS!”
He would point to the sign and explain the policy.
Two P.M., the front door rattled and the string of bells on the door handle tinkled violently. Favor stepped through the door and screamed,
“Where’s my shirt?” The cleaner pointed to the rack in the window as tears welled up in his eyes. Favor yanked the pile of cloths apart and grabbed his shirt. There was a moment of silent breath, the seconds before a storm, calm and easy. Favor grinned malevolently, It’s torn.” he said matter of factly. The dry cleaner began the speech he had practiced………,” it’s our policy…….” he paused in mid sentence as Favors mouth opened wide, wider than humanly possible, the expanse of deserts and flame, wicked perfume and darkness, unhinged enormous his mouth elongated and stretched to freakish proportions, from head to toe, all teeth and mouth. The line of his lips was a trail of spittle as his mouth gaped to a six foot chasm; thorns and briar and fire, a conflagration in the midst of hell. The cleaner yielded to the gaping pit with a screech as Favor swallowed him whole in a great gulping spasm.
Favors mouth closed and he pressed back through the front door with his damaged shirt.
The day wore on and the dry cleaners business saw a number of bewildered customers , “Where is he?” one of them questioned. “The sign on the door says, OUT TO LUNCH” the other responded sneaking her new dress off the rack and out the door of the dry cleaners.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Badness

Ron Koppelberger
Badness
The sense of excitement in him was hued a charcoal shade of black. He was a voyager, a landlord in the desert abode of disorder and mayhem. He had waited a thousand years and a thousand thousand lives for his chance at freedom. He was the dissident dweller, the innate hearth of evil intent, the spirit bearing gifts of corrupt cloven angst.
The vast savannah of wheat and saffron amber ramble was a direct contradiction to the arid, waterless plains of desolation he was confined to, bound by the chains of divine purposeful angels.
He was badness, plain and simple badness. The breach was at the epicenter of the saffron grain fields, descried by a circle of bloodstained stones and the bones of both animal and man. Bone dust dirty dirge he thought as he looked at the enormous crucifix and chain that guarded the spot. He imagined the great maw dividing the egress as the plains burned with his fury. He would requite the sins of time with his affection.
The badness settled in and waited as the man and wolf approached the egress. He would watch and wait for the summons.
The pair passed the entrance to desolation on their way in quest of third heaven and the city of sinless wonder. Momentum carried them through on angel wings as fiery eyes followed their progress.

The Innocence of Angels

Ron Koppelberger
The Innocence of Angels
The tumbling systematic purge of truth found the disinterested compromise of deranged reason. Old Nick was reposing in colors of uncouth endurance, wonders of stone and wastrel ash black. He listened as the angel refined his measure of abrading business. The fervor of the angel was notable to Nick. Must be a fresh one he thought as the angel ministered to him. In retrospect he supposed the angel had been weighted with the burden of a gamboled innocence.
Old Nick was uncertain of the lords sudden interest in his station, yet being bereft of reason he felt that his time was nearly at hand. The angel had expressed the beholden boundaries of a turn. “Accept God!” he had spoken in harmonies of gold. Old nick being bereft of reason laughed as he schemed his earthly assault. The innocence of angels he thought.

Africa

Ron Koppelberger
Africa
The double game, The turn and the vortex of angry conviction was a seasoning in careful tyranny for Africa Stagger. He burned with the course of a bidden beast, an indelicate prospering of anger and fiery rage, he was the king of the utmost spoil, a diabolical benediction in ash and ebony stone.
He screamed to the padded cell walls, “Kill them all, kill them all!” The straight Jacket had torn loose from his limber body and he thrashed flailing his arms at the walls. Africa screamed at the small square of glass that led to the green tiled walls of the outer hallway. “Help Meeeeeeeeeeeee, Help Meeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed in gasping rages of sound. As he screamed images of flame and ash filled his mind. Laughing between shouts he saw fields of burning wheat in vast vistas of rolling soot. “Heeeeelllppp meeeeeeeee!” he yelled at the nurse on the opposite side of the padded door.
The door leading to the outside ally was propped open at the end of the hall, trash day, he laughed and screamed, “Heeellllpppppp Meeeeeeeee!” He pictured the taboo of blood stained concrete floors, he saw the nurse in perfect miseries of death. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” he bellowed forcefully. The tyranny of darkness shaded black as he thought. The lock turned and clicked several times and Africa waited seeing nothing but the tyranny of darkness.

An Evening Prayer

Ron Koppelberger
An Evening Prayer
The deathlessness of an angel in minds of contemplation and fulfillment, it was a vertical requisition in sympathies of worship and remedy, the wings of repose and an evening prayer.
The priest mourned the tangled knot of shadow that had revealed the labyrinth of assembled vaults and crumbling crypt walls. He traced a decoration that adorned one of the stone tombs, wreaths of rose blossom and webs of designed harvest wheat. The hearth of tranquil sleep ran the length of the cathedral.
A forgotten crypt, new construction on the church fascia had accidentally uncovered the vault. Father Nandina walked the length of the crypt. His footprints were shallow pools in the ancient dust. He had been inspired by the conclave of secret parishioners laying a thick padded quilt near one of the crypts. He lay down on the quilt, vulnerable in spirit to the moment. He had removed his jacket and wadded it into a ball, a makeshift pillow. The balance of reason and ancient expectation filled his consciousness as he drifted into a dream of angels and demons in winged combat. A battle for the soul of man ensued. He dreamed of vast vistas of wheat and saffron bloom, perhaps it was a time to come, what was yet to be. He dreamed and an angel touched his brow, bequeathing a blessing and the power of god’s love.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Enigma in Black

Enigma in Black
Ron Koppelberger
App 197 Words
 
 
He sat listening to the quiet eternity that had put him in the center of a greater will. The boquet of roses had wilted and withered weeks ago and still he waited for the conclusion to the experiment. Wishing for god's help he saw the tattered shell of a beetle and in an instant it was in his grasp. He paused, the old shell had gone brittle and dark like ancient resin. He streatched his arms forward and crushed the shell between his fingertips....it was simple and said everything except..... Sleep and dreams, the conversation weeks earlier had been of sleep and dreams, and he had relished the advent of the time, the turn of the hour, the roll of the dice. Cherry red blossoms lit the whites of his eyes as he waited for the visitors....what would he say. Perhaps he would ask for help and perhaps he'd cry. They had to listen to his madness. Whirlwinds of smoke and flame filled his consciousness for a moment, in that second he knew their anger. In the end he still waited.....and waited for the aliens to arrive with the promise of youth.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Torch Song

Ron Koppelberger
Torch Song
Ascertaining the vicinity of secret, forwarded graineries and refined minds in escort he tried to persuade the ocean tide, the spectacle of quick swallows and an exhausted calm; the truth lay in his still shadow and the silhouette of the wolf, all told by tabloos in saffron desire and inhalations of sea salt, moreover the torch song of sinless wings and willful prayers.
He found the harvest under the sun and blue skies, eternal in waves of grain and bloom; he found his center at the pass between stones and wheat, endless sovereign wheat.
The man absorbed the flittering memory and shortened the distance between alters in glass and bone dust ransom. He honed the quest and revived his sweet Amabilis, the city lay ahead and in dark unformed illusion, the city sorrowing the dream in souls of fire, Amabilis in rags and tattered closeness. He would venture closer to the shapeless future with a hunger for destiny. There would be tears and ornate pitiless fire. He managed the difficult vagabond kinship between sand and asylum, between awakenings and clouds of enormous length. He considered all four points returning again to the fields of saffron and wheat. They called out in silent advance, the fires and the angels, they said straight in clandestined passion and he continued that way toward his exiled princess.

The Barbed Wonder Tool

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
Pigeon Haversack
Worrying in scoffs of rambling gall the ingenuity of his spirit traveled by that resource and Haversack. He had plead for the patience, pregnant in relation to the Haversack. A Bartered poise, a compromise with the angels of Florida, the clutch of unbroken Chameleon and pigeon haversack. It was a consecrated outfit of resolute soul, a tranquil dialogue in fragile sacrifice and awareness, an enchanting hold, a divine envelope for the substance of salvation. It contained the mystery of a thousand tales and countless adventures. It was a journey between cabalistic vamp and restorative waters, a pigeon haversack full of sparrow brilliance and nightingale dreams.
The purveyor of dance and flirtatious fortune, assured and postmarked in care of avatars and providence, a fray done in human respite. Perhaps it was an unbound albatross, not an albatross but a moment of fate defined by luck or free will, a beacon of evidenced miracle. The secret haversack in pigeon posture and honey dew savor, signed by the blood of kinship with trust and the spirits journey in the pigeon haversack.