A cut from "Mittilagart"

The sequel to my fantasy novel, Okeanus, is Mittilagart. The protagonist of the sequel is a dark angel by the name of Antonius Bleak. Here is a cut from the latest chapter. It takes place in an alternate-history Berlin in 1951. Story lines from Vogel and the White Bull and Okeanus cross in this novel.

As they walked the German told Bleak what he knew about the people they were going to meet. The woman lived on the fourth floor of a six-story building near Tempelhof Airport that somehow had escaped destruction. Her apartment, which she shared with four other women, was large and relatively well-appointed. She and her roommates were involved in most of Berlin’s vices: prostitution, illegal contraband, primarily cigarettes and alcohol, forged papers, and currency exchange.

When they reached the apartment, a rat-faced man in his late forties, wearing a new gray pin-striped suit and a garish tie, opened the door. He recognized the German and opened the door a bit wider but stopped when he saw Bleak standing behind him. “Who is he?” he said, as he reached into his suit pocket for his gun, a .38 revolver that he extracted in one fluid move.

The German blurted out nervously: “He’s looking for letters of transit. He has dollars.”

A woman’s voice from inside ordered: “Let them in.” And the man stepped aside and waved his gun, indicating they should enter and follow him. They passed through a narrow foyer into a large living room with carpets on the floor, chairs, love seats and couches, a grand piano in the corner and a fire burning merrily in the marble-framed fireplace. Above it hung a Nazi painting of naked men and women cavorting in a clearing in a Teutonic forest and below it, inches from the grate, a man in a United States Army officer’s uniform sat in a leather chair, puffing on a Cuban cigar, while a tall, thin blonde, wearing a black evening dress cut to emphasize her large breasts, leaned against the arm of his chair, holding a brandy snifter made of cut crystal. Nearby, another woman, a brunette, also in a black evening gown, sat at the piano, playing some Chopin piece. As Bleak and the German entered the room, she asked: “Where do you want to go?” Bleak’s escort answered, “He wants a letter of transit for Frankfurt am Main.” The woman, ignoring the German, pushed back the bench of the piano and approached Bleak, drawing very close. She was tall, almost the same height as Bleak. She stared directly into his eyes, as if she were either trying to discern his character or make him nervous. He remained calm as she edged even nearer to him. He could smell cognac and cigarettes on her breath, as well as her perfume, something French with a citrus base. With her lips almost touching his, she said with a sneer on her dark red lips: “What are you, a cop or a Russian spy?” He noticed a slight smear of lipstick on her white teeth and he wondered if she were a product of the Lebensborn Project.

Ailanthus Altissima

at dusk
snail willed
a straight course
across cement
to the ailanthus

at dawn its twisted
trail outlined
in shimmering slime
testified
to its failure

the record showed
twists turns
digressions
back tracks
and caesura

the conclusion

the dewy night
with worried wind
denied its will
to drive direct
to its favored leaf

Hobbes' Lament

in nature
all equal
are entitled
to all

the lion slays
the lamb
while sheep
graze on sweet grass

where crocodiles
lay in wait
for zebras

man kills man
steals his land
takes his wife

this is
natural right

"The Train"

A La Ciudad story, "The Train," appears in Issue 141 of @Hub Magazine

Amphibians

we are the sea
embodied

rising and falling
with the moon

moon children
pale and luminous

with our tides
in then out

fetid febrile
frail fertile

fiends
with tails

Cooking the Books

heroic deeds
performed
yesterday
mean nothing
to green sirens

daily victories
and wet kisses
recorded
dutifully
in today's ledger
are customary

while tomorrow's
promises are
as meaningless
as payment
of last week's
wages

Ole South

I could
if I would

resurrect

jelly roll
sounds

from red bricks
in the quarter

found notes
newly round

like bales
of cotton
sweat-stained

rolled up ramps
onto steam ships

London bound

Review of "The Empathy Effect"

Hub Magazine, Issue 137, contains my review of The Empathy Effect by Bob Lock.

Crow Asks

crow on rock
in stream
dreams

what is time

stone answers
dust

stream whispers
flow

time tells
no one
thing