In Dark Rooms Poem by Butch Decatoria

In my dark room,

Listening to the dirty din of Sin

City streets

concrete weight of after hours

My window ajar

to let the outside air in

while chain smoking to the whirring sirens'

soundtrack

of harpies' in heels

clucking and squealing

(laughter as sharp as their stilettos)

midnights past

black rubber tires burnt

From black boulevards

vehicular collisions'

sounds stalagmite, metallic

crunch

against the hum of sleeping traffic

signals

this hollow city like a wide amphitheater

with the occasional Harley motorcycle's

Growling thunderous fuss

waking car alarms

(a choir of infants' high pitch wailing...)

The desert night's siroccos

outside my 2nd floor apt. window

in dark rooms

where my silence is a deep listener

and my mind a curious wanderer,

where the walls

not only keep out

but carry every conversation

in such a cryptic void

a spark is gleaned,

a firefly wisp of an epiphany

we are not separate

you and I

city and fly

burrow and groundhog

dam and beaver


we are unread books in dark rooms

waiting for the absolute

truth's boon

we find

in one another

to be known

to be keenly seen

Igniting past horrors

loudest pains

from this city that strips us;

our pages open like Window panes

ajar...

no matter how ugly the chapters

we will have known

joy being

a passerby's "J"

Your emblazoned story

is also mine /



Up north & southern

swamp willows

breath and sultry kiss.


All humid human wish

Sweating the nights awake

Until dusk is dawn

And light drains the sinew

All screaming sins made few…


Steaming shadows

shattering length wise

In lieu

of bright carpets made of morning

Green grass and dew

still

our day yet written New...

dreamy like

fireflies in dark rooms,

a simple story

(a night sky full of story…)

Each light our eyes touch

Fireflies in dark rooms.