King Street Angel

On a wooden bench, seconds from the subway, just inside the city line was this woman. No warning, just her little hands and a winter hat illumed ‘neath the frosty street lamps. She broke the silence with just the slightest of plea; ice-skating within my anima.

I peered curiously into her cheeks to see the breasted bones of invention and there I caught the outline of God. A voyeur tapping his stars in cashmere and trying like hell through His black lenses to align.  It was hypnotic.  Like a clever artist bartering in chi. Calling out to others I believe she never meant for anyone to see.

Undoubtedly, I was hooked.

I took to my days when somewhere beneath me there was a cold liar articulating these moments inside or beneath my scraps of wealth.

It was impossible to raise my better senses from the ego of this disguise… An old memory chewed and chewed at the skull of my hollow consent. Her fresh aim splattering lies from her rows of pearly teeth out toward that blinding bliss beckoning at heavens gate.

 This was not carved out of some inner sanctum, nor was it birthed from the hemorrhage of Apollo’s migraine. Freedom doesn’t march like a soldier, willingly to some rhythmic song. Marching is molded for rebellion. Truth is not the b***h of some constituency. With rain it hovers, like an ominous cloud or god. It was here billions of years before her empty hand and it will remain many years thereafter.

However, in all of this, her words panned and rigged at my uncomfortable mind. Pulling at the pockets of some saintly stir. The city was hers.  She was the gilded clown, soaring to the bar keeps at concrete’s end. The decision rolled with an old mind, curling back neath the smell and darkness of its tow.  

I was well enough along the banks; ever the fisherman’s flask. Shuffling by like a weed on my way to the ocean….Blind footed and indifferent and soon to burn over hell.

Reviews

[Bob Sherunkle]

I wish I had read this sooner.Very beautiful and a kick in the head at the same time.

[Perdition]

Well said Mr. Dig-its..Well said. Nothing like a kick in the head when it comes to perception or truth although the bus she climbed charges nothing and she was asking for exact change in order to climb aboard. Perfect in my estimation of antonymy.

[Priscilla Sayers]

This phenomenal Hawk!
Each word drawing me in.
My mind becomes the seaweed that rips her roots clear of the oil sodden sand
Committing suicide just to be clear of the toxic poison released by man
Choosing the death of rolling free waves & clear waters
Over suffocating by the hand of another who deems her life unimportant
Who does not recognize her existence....

[Kristallo]

" This was not carved out of some inner sanctum, nor was it birthed from the hemorrhage of Apollo’s migraine. " This begs for introspective deliberation. Soft and sudden, it creeps up on you and beguiles with the deeper undercurrents of rushing symbolism and lightning skies. How many ways can I say that I love it? There is pale fire here, a testimony of an image that one cannot unsee- and no one, I presume, could ever really SEE the way you have. There are so many fabulous forms of language here, so many powerfully immense lines for one to withdraw into. This, "Her words panned and rigged at my uncomfortable mind. Pulling at the pockets of some saintly stir. The city was hers." I wish there was an entire book of this for me to lose myself within. The story of your 'gilded clown', your fisherman's daughter, your princess of pine... however, I have a hard time imagining you as ever blind footed and indifferent, but I suppose all moods have their place in the cognizant of a day's journey. Your perception is rough around the edges, and there are so many edges to be watchful for, their cut inclines the reader to drip and seethe inside the madness of words strung high in the evolution of mind and masterful story-telling. Such a whimsy world is this......

Sensational write, P. Truly enigmatic.