Ravens Blood
Friday, February 25, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Endurance
Ron Koppelberger
Endurance
The misery of frequent voyage into the realms of pain and adrenalin rush was the most powerful motivation in Tom Snaps blameless existence. He pushed the rational of preventive measure to its limits. The treadmill hummed and Tom pushed and pumped, strove and exhaled in near exhaustion. The quality of faith in the machine, in the substance of obsession and wild allay with the soul of a healthy belief consolidated his balance, the balance of desire for perfection and hazy mists of ascending vapor, passage to the sweaty besides of raging rebellion and good, healthy exercise. The deeply satisfying bloom of flushed checks and visages of lean demeanor were the favored choices of those who exercised with ceaseless abandon he thought. Thirty-five miles and counting, the treadmill continued to hum and somewhere deep in the mechanism of metal essential, a stray screw unwound. The divine communion obeyed the holy orders of synchronous movement and straining sinew.
He jogged on the rotating rubber mat and the beast hummed in confederate accord. A shoelace, the fetters of expensive running shoes hung loose, bouncing from the rotating track to the top of his shoe. Tap, Tap, Tap,……the screw continued to unwind. He pushed and pushed until his exhaustion bode fate. The loose shoelace caught in the plastic and metal mesh, the gears of the rolling consul, of miles undone, at thirty-seven point five miles caused him to fall. Smash and a yank…….his ankle twisted and snapped with a dull pop. He fell into the guard rail and his forehead bore the impact. Delirious, he lay on the humming beast, the mat blood spattered and a scarlet veil trickling into his eyes.
The lockout key remained in place and the beast continued to hum, rolling against his skin in Indian burn and exacting tangle. Finally, after a moment that seemed to be hours he yanked the lockout key and the beast stopped. Smeared in crimson and maroon the black rubber mat cooled, settling in sated measure and degree. Crawling away he made it to the utility room where he kept his tools. Fumbling around for a moment he found what he needed.
Dragging himself back to the treadmill he swung the heavy hammer killing the beast and in turn reconciling his desire for perfection, in triumph of the obsessive demon in guise of utility.wolffray.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Passive Revolutions
Ron Koppelberger
Passive Revolutions
The daily marriage of Sumpter Sash and Gretta Gashing was a romance in discrete fame. An underground mascara thick and ashen gray covered them in a cloak of shadow. The precautions were arrayed by brilliant intervals of light and endless seas of twilight. The betrothal of light to the silhouettes of long shadows in reflection. The pause between grooves of glowing sunshine and the caste of binding mirrors and smoke defined their love of union. The spirit and the confederate allay of an ascending forethought and the trail of cold wound web followed their paths in the wont of an unbridled desire to be close to each others gift.
Standing in gaping submission to the flames of an elevated innocence, a promise of cyclic discretion, they found the way of betrothal and sweet sanctity in twilight.
Sumpter ruled the day and Gretta submitted to the shadow of his luminescence, notwithstanding, Gretta ruled the blessing of twilight and inward shadows; she announced the indigo beginnings of tall encounters and the remedy of night unto an ancient day. A substance of breath and suspiring sleep, dreams and the morrow. The marriage of day and night.
Twilight Prissy
Ron Koppelberger
Twilight Prissy
The yearning decree of subconscious tangles filled by shadow and the advance of new beginnings tattooed the innocence of approaching twilight upon the bosom of her reflection. She squinted in asylums of wan sunshine and aloofness in the mystery of evergreen eyes and rare love. She loved the curative moment of passage, she pampered her sedate countenance in the stain of a dusty reflection. The mirror pleasured her, near crystal egress the window stole her from the mirrored glass and outlined her in sunlight silhouette.She delicately named her homespun spirit an emotion of mercy arranged by her throbbing mood in vapory lady ghosts waiting for dark fall and the allure of anatomies in flux, the circle of evening ascension. She exhausted the day and justified the night with a prelude to symphonies, delirious by tempest repose.
A crisscross, an amber ageless sash in
Rose blush, in seasons of flittering bondage
Set free by spells and elusive magic charm.
A gilded overlay and an ancient owl
In obsessive caution and care, twofold psalm
And the flight of a lyric allusion to the chagrined
Gypsy moth and the clever mind of wolves, black cat
Whisker worlds that swathe the cradle of night
With small purpose and vast wild abandon.”
She sang and spoke in the reflective glass of her admiration and the coquette of her darkening heaven. The better curfew of creatures in likely shapes of voyage unto the night, she gathered her image and entered the shadows with a grin.
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