the ballad

of coffee

unsung

(part

three:

nuka-carl

quantum)

 

nestled on

the edge of a

decomposing

overpass sits

a humble one

-and-a-half

room, wood

and steel

hash shack

spired with a

makeshift

radio tower,

high above

the mutfruit

crops of a

local farmer

by the name

of finch,

accessable

only by a

remarkable

snarl of

scaffolding

and copper

wiring

tangled into

an elevator

from shore

to highway.

 

inside this

modest

mosaic of

post-

apocalyptic

scrap, a

skinny ghoul

gathers his

conscious

-ness to

greet a

shotgun

sunrise of

strawberry

buckshot

behind a

squeeze of

orange

clouds

against a

cerulean

forever.

 

he drinks a

thick cup of

slocum’s in

grognak

print briefs

on the front

porch in the

tall wind. he

closes his

eyes in the

unsaturated

quiet of a

sub rosa

meanwhile.

 

he retires

again inside

to a bedside

stretch and

whore bath

before

dressing.

he wears a

red and

white bottle

and cappy

letterman

jacket over

a pale blue

nuka-world

tee shirt and

ankle cuffed

jeans with

white hi-top

sneakers,

runs a comb

through a

blue nine to

five and

dead man’s

hand. he

fixes a three

mirelurk egg

omelet and a

small bowl of

sugar bombs

for breakfast,

sits at his

kitchen table,

and eats in

silence.

 

a quick climb

up a ladder

sized set of

cobalt steel

stairs leads

him to his

half room

pirate radio

studio built

from a pair of

repurposed

vault-tec

consoles, a

common

radiation king

radio, and an

oversized

nixie tube.

his beloved

freeway

belfry

decorated

by as much

nuka-cola

memorabilia

as he could

muster and

furnished

with a torn

red wide

armchair in

which he

then sits

to begin his

broadcast to

as far as his

frequency

could carry

his raspy

vox pop

before

becoming

over

encumbered.

he flips the

switch for

transmission,

 

rise and glow

to my favorite

common

-wealth family

farmers. stay

tuned for an

uninterrupted

hour of the all

the best

wasteland

ballads this

side of the

street.

 

and then, a

knock at his

door.