Posts Tagged Angels
There was a lady
with immaculate black
ponytail. I eagerly looked
but not one hair was
disarranged. And not
simply the ponytail. It was
this soft, slick, shiny, furry,
perfect, oval jewel on her
pate. Society would dub
me creepo if I had chased
her, but her red pants
fit too perfectly and her spicy
white blouse exploded
roars of light too good
for this rotten neighborhood,
so I wanted to tag after
and listen to her tell me
about all of the good things
that have happened to her,
listen with glowing eyes
to her indefatigable beauty,
but I am no creepo, so here
I sit, dead and dumb.
Driving madness for no one,
to ruin my gentle salads,
running over the poor kids,
seeing a perfect body,
making me want
to dance with her,
shrink her ego,
giving her room and freedom
She can’t hear what I hear,
but a haunting bolt of lightning
of a glance bears terribly gentle
beauty, and I want to be in her
pockets, a warmth chilling her body,
walk with her in a rhythm from
the pink of clouds which reach down
and wrap me in a seemingly-permanent
state of safety, and my turn, my turn,
it made me connected, made me want
to run away forever and listen
to bedtime stories, true ones.
She walked with a pronounced
limp. Despite that,
I thought everything
would work out.
but there was a streetscape
topped with beauty.
The black curls were bouncy, variable-
speed like fake rubber. No, she marches
upright, seriously real. I need to
dance but I am alone.
The morning shadows have a new shape, and the cacophony of the birds has started again. Foreshadows of hope, it’s on the way, and I refuse to stop, to ask why because I know this little buzz, this hope-thing being on the way is a silly artifice made of tissues.
The winter sun has frightened me for so many countless months, causing guilty pleasure and pride with the trinkets from my endurance, still wondering what kind of animal I might be. Not all of the people see the monsters in the shadows, crawling longingly on the bright winter days. The monsters are ghosts, or spirits, and they’re not interested in being seen as they are far too busy singeing the raw nerves of the fragile psyches (ones such as mine), which make us little, gangly, spider-like animals too timid to go out, lest we be smashed by the semi-trailer which has been dislodged and has flown perfectly to land centered on our little plastic cars.
But today, I’ll drive slowly in the little residential neighborhoods, not for fear of being trashed by the trailer but for fear of smashing any heavy wall, smoothly and head-on. My car window is down by about 2 inches and confidence in my spirit grows with the crisply testy, cool breeze. I will feel comfortable for I will be familiar with almost all of the people, and some of them are as nice as a human can be. I need my meeting, my medicine.
It’s this backdrop that causes surprise upon reflection. What is it buried so deeply that made me break down in complete despair, sobbing like an uncontrollable fruit fly?
Despair sits on the pink leather
in my nose and tickles
the back of my throat
in the pea-green leather sofa,
crawls like a snail,
sideways, lurching forward like a turtle
in a bath of surreal Blue Jay feathers.
And Buddy-The-Dog announced,
“My leg hurts.
I said, “Of course it does;
you’re speaking English,”
and Harry-The-Dog moaned
over the difficulties of life –
A real moan like from a bear
who cares never to be disturbed.
I want to accept Despair’s
toggles with her fountain pen,
and I tell her, “You’re just a story;
you are not who I am,”
he wags his tail vigorously,
and Harry-The-Dog asks me to scrub
the persistent baby snot off my face.
Gracie-The-Dog is the queen
of serenity, and she sleeps through
all of the commotion
caused by Despair’s ruthless burglary
while Daisy-The-Dog and Pixie-The-Dog
wrestle in turmoil through the guest room,
hopelessly heedless of the terrible
Storm that surfs, close-by to the North.
This man says
all in the forest fall up.
I want to fall up,
but how to get there?
A terrible yellow ceiling of sky
dampens all my fuses.
If I can’t fall up,
can I tell you how down is?
Pride drives me.
She uses trinkets of activities
that show I am clever,
but she defiles my soul,
draws me in every time.
Maybe this time it’s okay
to feel magic in my steps,
but I’m tainted by yellow.
I have nowhere to fall.
I look at my Golden for infinite moments.
Her eyebrows move in that way
that makes me love her with fiery guts,
that makes me feel more love than imaginable,
and I turn away, voice bouncing off walls,
“You must live longer than I.
I don’t have much business left here,
but you have voluminous loving to do.”
She gave him up.
–The bath water might be too hot and I wouldn’t know, and he might drown but he runs and walks but he’s only two and he might drown.
She wants to be steady and she wants him back, but all she can do is see us slobs.
–I left the grilled cheese on the stove, but at some point I turned it off. I don’t know when I did that but I turned it off, and what if I didn’t turn it off.
We hope she keeps talking to us slobs and she can have him back after she’s spoken with us slobs long enough and has a new-found steadiness from the ultimate of surrenders.
should be moving
heaving a computer,
over the edge.
The Art of Fugue drives me,
to violent, good crashing.
Not as bad as I seem,
I love my Bach,
working to fire
the good into the blue bubbles.
Watch me wave,
love my soul.