Tag Archives: autumn

Jerry’s story

Jerry moves like a boulder in the wind.

Humped over in a brown leather shell like a bomber,
he takes the gusts to his left cheek.

His whole
bowls around something protected
(in the shelter of his lap)
while his eyes fire at squirrely random for thieves and p r e d a t o r s!

Jerry’s jaw is a shelf of consternation JUTTING from a punched flour face.

His eyes fix on a limping man he knows.
They share a wave. Stiff and incomplete. Starting halfway. Cut off at the high note. Truncated gesture of shy, ungestated acquaintance.

Jerry is: rounded back of the great ape. Shoulders, pinched in by weary chub, sloping not ungracefully up a tire tread neck to downy pocket-lint cue ball head.

He has the sculpted-bust profile of a rubber nipple.

All around Jerry, empty cafe chairs face together toward a lonely direction. Sideways, they take the gusts to their left cheek. It is an empty audience where only Jerry sits, uninterested watcher of a wintering tree.

The tree has selected an elegant sylvan gold. Gold Leaf!
None of the harsh but brilliant flames of the furious oaks by the lake.
It will drop its clothing
willingly, repeatedly, deliberately, with the timing of a striptease, letting
a chorus becoming a troupe becoming isolated pairs and clusters of clinging lovers in the final gentle orgy of a life-year, until slip-slip
and the bold tree, demure and humbled tree, waits in a bright spot for Jerry to dumbly take it in

Jerry palms his thighs, hefts the entire human machine of himself to a working compromise of height.

Rolling step-by-step away from his front row seat, he takes to the corner of eroded sidewalk. A lurch propels him ponderously across the earth-curve of the street.

There on a distant shore Jerry stands swaying through currents of people coming
standing in the middle of the crowds and to the side of parents with small hands folded into theirs,
hurried brown coats with important papers tucked underneath arms and into leather cases,
scarves and hats and sweaters of knitted sheep hair,
choruses and troupes and tiny orgies of a life-year burning their way to other corners.

Jerry stands like a boulder in the wind.

He turns: takes the gusts to his right cheek.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,
Death, The Life Story

Tracing a life through stories of death. Sometimes funny, sometimes not.


"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

Seal Matches

Stories & News

unbolt me

the literary asylum

Jehona Thaqi


Mugilan Raju

Prime my subconscious, one hint at a time

The Flyleaf Wordsmith

The door leading to blaring madness.

Hiking Photography

Beautiful photos of hiking and other outdoor adventures.