MICHAEL KESHIGIAN

The Project

THE PROJECT

He felt as if he were born

to the sawdust and nails

of writing, working daily

in hours of solitude

to construct an architecture

which at times

seemed like a pointless task,

devoid of shelter for any dweller,

a paper house

easily toppled in a stray breeze.

On many afternoons

he abandoned the work,

meandered outdoors

to view the project from afar,

somewhat defeated yet relieved

once he soaked his head

in the light of the sun

which cleansed the metaphors

from his brain,

allowing a bit of respite

while the half house

toppled in a sigh of wind.

He could hear the creaks

of settling rubble.

Fallen walls,

once separated by nouns and verbs,

were now splintered by light

in puffs of dust,

carried off with a gust,

floating until an optional blueprint

penciled in his head,

a new rhythm of nails

that bonded another design

with an alternate configuration.

THE CORNER MUSICIAN

With massive gasps and fluid fingers

a saxophonist improvises

the sounds of city,

capturing the rhythm of urban diaspora

as it approaches the cadence of life.

His licks and riffs reveal

the tempest of the metropolitan mentality,

his intonation shades its complexities

as he attempts to calm the pulse

of the sprawl with modal motifs

that identify the dissonance

each inhabitant exudes

as they follow a silent song.

He clears the way

with a beam of sound,

opens a passage that is human

and captures passion and sensitivity

in a web of eighth notes

that interview the mystery

between asphalt and the soul.

HOARDING LIFE

His home was full of collectibles,

paintings, books, crafts,

possessing various degrees

of monetary worth and desirability,

yet what he cherished most

were items of menial worth

but considerable sentimentality,

items that pulled him back in time,

a large coffee can

he painted green

for his three year old son gathering rocks,

elementary songbooks,

a dilapidated grandfather’s rocking chair,

springs so rusty

they would snap if weighted upon,

the old Doberman’s chew toy,

his father’s tools.

All buildup

from previous generations

he hopes his children

will have the courage to discard

as he did, submerged in thought,

with his mother-in-law’s mementos

while his wife

was lost in remembrance,

grasping old photographs

and birthday cards

she once sent with their children’s

infant signatures attached.

RECOGNIZED

He stood there,

staring back at me,

odd expression upon his face,

smiling after I did

from the other side

of a huge pane window

on the newly renovated office building,

appearing a bit more disheveled

than I remembered.

More wrinkles

supported his grimace

and receding hairline,

acknowledging me

when I nodded hello.

I use to know him well,

athletic, sculpted, artistic,

a well defined physique,

but his apparent paunch

negated any recent activity.

This window man

I thought I knew,

musician, writer, runner, dreamer,

now feasted off the stale menu

of advancing age,

aches, excuses, laziness,

failing eyesight and an appetite

for attained rights

decades seem to imply.

Yet I accepted him,

embraced him for who he was,

aware that he would be the lone soul

to accompany me

toward the tunnel’s light

when all others have drawn the blinds.

“Walk with me,” I say.

He stays close.

WHAT TO DO WITH INTANGIBLES

Early morning, a little snow

teases the outstretched branches

with the help of the wind.

It is cold, but inside the stove’s warmth

cradles the recliner in the lamplight

where he reads poems.

His fingers, thick and calloused,

flip pages enthusiastically

as he notices the shape of his nails,

much like his father’s,

no moons rising.

And like his father had done,

it’s time to contemplate departure.

One day, the stove unlit, will dispense

the damp aroma of creosote,

the book will lie closed

upon the arm of the recliner.

One day, a relative will enter

and acknowledge

that the house is empty,

no warmth, no breath, no poetry,

an indentation upon the seat

next to the book.

The change will go unnoticed

by the snow, wind, ice, and

those few crows meandering

for morsels upon the buried landscape.

He returns to reading,

the words delight him.

What would become of these joys,

he wonders.

Someone should take them.