a poem of dual meanings.

 

 

 

Somehow if you listen closely to Aretha's 'Chain of Fools' with your elbows

holding your surprised arms that hold your startled chin and staring at the

radio like last friday nights lottery ticket, with all the wrong numbers, and

wishing out loud if the 46 was just a 45 I would have some money and a

lotusland of free theatre, where I play the wind and you play the gale of

the benevolent child.

 

Even Jack Spicer, gay and dying in San Fran in that play of the marigold

liver, where even the yellowist of blosoms fail before the moons sister.

"My vocabulary did this to me" like it did, this growing need, to everyone else

who sits their subspecies asses in small rooms writing poetry. So

 

of paradise I have no good answer, just an extending of a horizontal hand

like a proud father shows the height of the growing child.

Of beauty, I turn to the lotus of reputed contentment.

Of failure, I turn to the sun that holds my green tomatoes

far too long, so the hungry yard animals can make their

love beeds of green and red lycopene. They know and I know that

they know the squilla that burrows beneath cool stones in

the shallow mud of heaven.

 

If there really is (wink) a place to go when you die

other than Gregorys funeral home, with your blood drained

out and your lips sewn together as if there was something

left to say; If there really was a place in the ground, low

and deep with the sustained sound of skin being pulled

like a stringed lute and played over the hot coals of the

dead mangroves, I would wish my hours away with my final

sense of self or hurriedly crouch down before the old machine

and arrange my eight tracks like a pimp wearing old clothes,

fidgeting with the bullshit rewind like a thousand

years had passed me by with the treble turned all the way down.

But wanting and needing to change.

 

Or believe, as the Baptist, that the rein of eternity is only held by

the omniscient guiding power of "the man upstairs"

and not Mr Ambrose either, who has a fish eye and lives above us

and who told me just this morning, that everything he

catches out of the dirty river,

he eats.

 

Reviews

[sienikeha]

brilliant. your work .. always so different. -- quite a good thing!

love :
"..where I play the wind and you play the gale of the benevolent child."

"...place in the ground, low and deep with the sustained sound of skin being pulled like a stringed lute and played over the hot coals of the dead mangroves..."

:the last bit 'bout Ambrose. just lovely. nourishing. creatively spun.

love the sprinkling of the word Lotus. that's my daughter's name. :)

__________
.blos(s)oms

[MOON]

Ha this is funny and clever.love the fourth stanza.

[Emily B]

a friend of mine has a monopoly on what God whispers, I only hear the devil, but she's missing all the colorful spirits in-between