June 18, 2003

• Akin to the Wife

   

  The sirens light up like strobes and the colors paint him with a garish red and blue.  Mystery men have warned you so it comes as no surprise.  Cleaning day; you’re in their way.  So, you make a decision; it only comes once.

   

  Run.  Over the chain-link fence where you’ll topple down and put rubber to asphalt.  Ignore the shout of angry men over bellowing loudspeakers.  Don’t be daunted by the conspicuous dance of chasing, tapping loafers.  Time to go for broke.

   

  Run through the park.  Make quick work of park benches and hurdle for good measure.  Weave through trees and feel the muffled crunch of damp, piled leaves.  Dive into the bushes and listen while they pass by.  You shan’t be so lucky again when they let loose the dogs.  Listen to yourself breathe and smell rank aftershave or maybe that’s the smell of fear.

   

                       

   

  Get up and run.  Make a dash for downtown but lo and behold, they’ve been waiting for you.  Bowl him over and keep your sprint.  Contort your body and narrowly avoid the grasping hands of justice.  Into the convenience store you go.  Stand in awe of the beer girl, cut in lifesize cardboard, holding escape in a can.  You’re wistful.  But here they come so hide behind a rack of postcards, left of overpriced beef jerky.  Grab a bag of pretzels and throw ‘em at angry faces.  Brownbag carbs coated with salt of the earth.  Now, salt in their eyes!

   

  Through Bus 19 and right back out again.  Apologize to the lady and smile at the kids with the boombox.  Bop your head, ah yeah.

   

  Through the corner grocery and weave a maze through the aisles.  Shelves tumble like dominoes.  Crash through the back door.

   

  Through the one hour photo.  Smile for the masses!  Snap, Warhol.  Snap.  Back out again.

   

  Through the church but no, you feel bad enough already.  But sorry, come thou fount, you’ve got to plough onward.  Raise your joys and triumphs high!  But hold off because they’re still in hot pursuit. 

   

  Just in: At the halls of justice.  Run up an Everest of marble steps.  Teary-eyed, they’re none too pleased and they’re only a few huffing steps behind.  God, you’re out of shape.  But thank God, they’re more so, weighed by jiggly butts full of stale doughnuts and drip coffee.  It makes for a funny scene on late breaking news: authorities in freeze-frame chase of one man in slow-motion escape. 

   

  Listen to the sirens, a strange whiny tune.  Whistle and run to the rumbling beat of helicopters circling above.  From up high, you’re nothing but a scrambling dot with arms pumping.  Beads of sweat trickling down your neck, you decide you’re tired and it isn’t as fun as you imagined.  Still, your adrenals are churning out the good stuff.

   

  The sky turns toward dusk as the sun mixes her light with the smog and monoxide of clogged commuter life.  Above, clouds give way to fiery colors – pink, orange.  The day spills over the brim.  Skyward, a fat Boeing drifts by, packed full of aching joints and blue peanuts.  Out those triple-pane windows, eyes bore through a city that stretches from congested middle to suburb to suburb to suburb.  And then, the sea.  The plan is to run, strip to your skivvies and take the plunge - float away, smooth like cellophane.  You win!

   

  Late and Breaking:  Feel their breath, singeing your neck like brimstone.  Turn to the side and there’s hard charging Blue!  Run and jump.  Over the railing, straight into the fountain where you’ll scrounge for quarters as they wring you from the deep.  All those coins will buy a lot of smokes come Thursday.  Hello, Miranda.  Baby, you look great!  Look at you, looking all sly in county orange.  Shoot.

   

  They rain down blows like baton fire, knocking the split-levels and mid-rises of your mind senseless.  Steve and Gary sit waiting; they’ve suffered the brunt.  Should’ve kept running!  But at least you’ll never see those two again.

   

                        

  
  Eight by ten: slobbering over a harmonica next to Davy Jones’ deodorant.  A solitary pillar, always looking back.  Singing that jazz: Nobody knows what you would do for some Rold Gold. 

   

  Through Eternity: Thanks, Lot.  But I makes my choice and I lives with it.

   

  Genesis 19:26

   

  ——————

   

  

  
     Portal 1 (Peter Sarkisian)

   

  ———

   

  quiet matter

   

  Grace covers us

  Even at our ugly worst.

   

  I’ve been ugly,

  Rather, I am.

   

  (Rather, damn.)

   

  Mercy on me

  Though I’m only one person:

   

  Grace and mercy

  I’m at your both

  At your because my

  Discretion Indiscretion

   

  Ignorant?  Hell no.

  Heaven and hell

  Beyond and below.

   

  The Bible

  Just words like

  Hello Goodbye but

  Less clear because of:

  I live in Los Angeles.

   

  Christianity as a visceral

  Experience

  The rational is best left

  In the Cold.

   

  Tomorrow should be different

  Be right with God

  But find him first

  He knows where he is.

   

  —————

   

  
  
    Make it so!

   

  ———-

   

  

  
  One of the prime movers here in Los Angeles, Eli Broad (one half of the KB powerhouse). 

   

   

  It’s late but I need to run.  A good week.

   

  

   

   

  whoa.  Matt11:28

  • 3:08 am
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