Dreams of the Diptera (Second Revision), Wizard Award ~ Part I: "The Old Diver" Options

[azurepoetry]

*Graphic provided by
Celtic Castle Designs

Dreams of the Diptera
Part I: "The Old Diver"
Much thanks to everyone who has pushed me on.
This verision has more changes, but feels good.


Silver rings, snug around gnarled fingers,
echo the warble of shaky, front wheels
as he pushes a grocery cart,

behind markets, through vacant lots
to the next dumpster. He prods
the plastic lid open with his walking stick,

then claws aside sun-burnt dreadlocks,
rich in dandruff and dried sweat,
revealing squinty eyes -

as shrunken, black flies in late summer,
flutter and drop
along the top of packed garbage.

Dusty, desert wind - candid
like an amnesic sailor, who's forgotten
the salty spume of the ocean,

instead - returns
to dry age his jerky skin, subdue
stubborn breath from lips

that break apart, cough fluid
out of lungs preserved like canned fruit.
This ancient wind,

untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,
became his only constant...companion.

An old man of the sea and city,
now he champions a dying art, voodoo:
slurring curses and conversations with ghosts,

keeping a crumpled print of Mary for a fetish,
while he traces his divining rod through trash,
scrutinizing chicken or fish bones,

whose entrails have surrendered their future
to fleeing squirrels and rats.
Amidst the refuse, he explores

for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings,
pocket watches with crippled springs,

each odd trinket
hooks his attention; he collects
and assigns them a proper history.

-------------------------------------------------------------
First Revision
He pushes a grocery cart full of salvaged treasures.
Silver rings on his hands, resound the clank
of his shaky front wheels, while he reconnoiters

behind closed stores, through vacant lots,
to the next dumpster, where he stops
and labors over the right equipment

for another dive. Atop a step ladder, diligently
he prods the plastic lid up
with rheumatic fingering of his walking stick.

Clawing aside sun-burnt dreadlocks
textured like ocean kelp, rich
with dander which reveal squinting eyes-

as shrunken black flies in late summer,
flutter and drop erratically
around the top of the packed garbage.

Wind, dusty instead of salty returns
dry-aging his jerky skin, subduing
stubborn breath from sand-blasted lips;

lips that break apart, mumble
fluid out of lungs preserved like canned fruit.
Ancient and candid, this wind,

untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,
became his only surviving constant...companion.

He champions a dying art, voodoo:
slurring curses and conversations with ghosts,
while he traces his divining rod through trash,

scrutinizing chicken or fish bones,
whose entrails have surrendered their future
to fleeing squirrels and rats.

Here, he explores for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings,
or pocket watches with crippled springs.

Each odd trinket
hooks his unusual attention; he collects
and assigns, in his mind, a proper history,
befitting a seasoned treasure hunter.
--------------------------------------------------------------

Original Version
He pushes a grocery cart full of salvaged treasures
along alleyways, parking lots
to each dumpster

where shaky hands, like those front wheels
of his cart, stop
in preparation for the next dive.

Wheezing atop a rusted step ladder,
rheumatic fingers claw
sun-burnt kelp hair, rich with ashy dander.

Folding over, he stretches
an anchor tattoed arm once strong enough
to hold a first born son named “Skip”.

Eyes,
shrunken black flies in late summer,
fluttering erratically – searching,

while sterile, desert air
carefully dry-ages his already jerky skin
into fleshy strips, subdues

stubborn breath from sand blasted lips
mumbling out of fluid lungs,
preserved like canned fruit since

he was an orphan. Ancient and candid
this wind untempered by the sprawling torpor
of strip malls and restaurants,

became his only surviving companion.
He champions a dying art,
voodoo

with his walking stick-
scrutinizing milk jugs and dissecting fish bones,
like entrails who’ve relinquished their

future to rats and squirrels-
looking for relics of previous lives:
favorite sweaters, solitary earrings

or pocket watches with busted springs.
Each odd trinket
hooks his unusual attention; he collects

and assigns a proper history, befitting
a seasoned treasure hunter
like himself.

Note: Part II will be posted in the short story forum once completed. Thanks for the read.

[azurepoetry]

Welcome back Snow,

It's a party! Your points and praises are all well taken. Esp. the stanza regarding the N's lungs. i am reworking that as we speak, and trying to tighten up that middle bit altogether...it is beginning to be a complete soliloquy and i am obliging that urge for the moment.
Many thanks for your return trip.

Read ya again soon,
~tim