Sour

Articles

Sour

By Brian Michael Barbeito
Oct. 30, 2006

A sour cherry tree, and the hills are sad. Stained inter-locking patio stones and the world never so glum. Mean dogs, and meaner thoughts. Hard old women, who stare with the devil, who stare out of nothing-good left. Strangers and ugly beige condominiums. Buses, where nobody talks, and only malevolence roams the parks and paths. Models old with dust. A thousand frigid girlfriends, and African masks that never made sense. Orange cat, fat and unkind. There are cobwebs in the hearts of squirrels, and far worse things in the hearts of men. Nobody lights a candle. The nurses of the world became full up with snide remarks, and have a proverbial chip on their collective shoulder, but it isn’t the fault of the innocent, who they take it out on. Continual darkness. Deep, deep almost unbreakable illusions. The lies people tell to themselves. Everything out of alignment and the worm eating the apple. Clothing shrinks. Valor shrinks. There hadn’t been anything on television for years. Maybe it was the bug light, the ‘zapper,’ that killed all those insects, and not a few bees, that created karmas. Maybe it was just bad luck, or the way of things. Cracks in the glass. Break and entries. Omens nobody believes. People move away. They take their hearts. Mice get killed in the noonday field, and the feline is fat with murder. Broken lips. Broken promises. The good spirit visits, as walks are taken down midnight streets in pain, but even the good spirit can’t do much. A bad decade. The world is full of Chlamydia, brown lawns, weak clasps, and an overcast mind. The betrayal of love. The sanctuary that doesn’t work, and is therefore not a sanctuary. Big low class nights, with lost people. Grey streets of Buffalo and strip malls. The elderly wanted to receive the sacrament of Last Rites, and there are electric summer fairs but with true bliss a far way off. The ghosts were gone. Lost between urban and rural. There was nothing behind the appearance of the suburbs. Not even some secret or poor deed, but nothing. Goldfish in the cemetery pond. Grapes on the vine. Headaches, knee aches, and soul aches. Termites that eat out the insides of railway ties. Ties once proud and strong in Saturday’s sun. Many things get rotten. Even the sour cherry tree is felled, leaving only hills. Hills of disdain, and a rusted-out lock on a fence.

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