July 22, 2003

• existential angst is for pansies

   

  When they sing, I hear heaven and hell collide; mountains are born, cracks sink into canyons, and out rings the buzz of every order of angel.

   

  My face was grizzled and my beard was thick for want of shaving.  Circe’s hands were oft-nestled there, combing loose peppered strands into place.  Her love remains something divine and doting.  Some girls will laugh at anything I say.  But all the while, I thought of you, Penelope.

   

  I was a man sent into battle, naked, cold, and cupping my manhood.  I mustered a war cry and it came forth with a cat’s meow; I was captured and tied to the stake.  The swarthy firing squad marched heartily; the martinet’s song rang in my ears. 

   

  It was lovely.

   

  Four perfect measures, gentle and sweet.  Dripping slow like a humid day; they winked at me.  The message was that they didn’t care but if I were so inclined, they’d not mind the company.  It was a shared glance that left me wondering.

   

  Then, it was lemonade with a spoonful of sugar.  Patently sour, my mouth recoiled, my face twisted, I grimaced.  The pain was of saccharine variety and I took it down in gulping dregs.  Shaking my head with animation, my jowls flap-flapped, my shoulders were made taut, and I waited.  And then, there was release.

   

  I tapped the bar for another and another.

   

  It burned going down and with each sip, the drink became something stronger.  It very well may have been bull piss and vinegar but head swirling, my vision blurred with trailing images of you and everything was pretty.  I’ve been gone for too long, babe.  I’ve done too many things you’d rather not see or know.  I’ve seen my share of dying; I’ve seen giants of singular vision, eating my friends and men with a focused certainty.  The sloppy marrow of living picked clean and swallowed with an ogre’s lazy mastication.

   

  Sirens.  In their hands, I was a weary, bearded embodiment of broken will.  Far from home, and thinking only of it, unaware of the grumbling prattle of lusty suitors lounging in our home, their song was ecstatic, warm, inviting, sincere and rife with everything I missed.  Their harmony was evil and a trap but with every note, they offered a glimpse of you.

   

  I strained against the ropes, cursing the day I was born.  With every ounce of being, I flexed and pushed but couldn’t break free.  The bastard men around me stared dumbfounded and for some – I was convinced – amused. Wax absorbing the brunt, they heaved at the oars, their sweat glistening on brows.

   

  I’ve hidden among sheep, scampering among bovine legs at the cost of friends.  Often humbled but ever resilient, I’ll make my way home.  I’ll don a disguise and face every challenge, dodge every arrow, parry every blow.  The postman rings but once and when you open the door, it will be me.

   

  I’ll be alive again.

   

  ——————-

   

  

  
  Imperial Warrior ( Hung Liu)

   

  —————-

   

  marcus aurelius

   

  Serenity of temper and courtesy

  Came by way of my grandfather,

  Verus.

   

  Verus lived in a village

  By the sea

  Sprinkled every

  Midmorning with sea

  White.

   

  He’d find the shiny gloss

  Of abalone a ransom

  For my affection.

   

  Fearing visions:

   

  Watching barbarians

  Piled in heaps

  Somewhere in Germania.

   

  ————

   

  Good morning!  I’m thinking: doughnuts…

  Matt11:28

  • 8:02 am
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